


I'd forgotten people are kind

by BialyLis



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Adopted Children, Adopted Sibling Relationship, Adoption, Alternate Universe - Foster Family, Alternate Universe - Siblings, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Anxiety Attacks, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family Bonding, Foster Care, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Parent Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Past Child Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sibling Bonding, Sleepy Bois Inc as Family, Wilbur Soot and Technoblade and TommyInnit are Siblings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-13 19:15:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 42,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28658568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BialyLis/pseuds/BialyLis
Summary: "Wilbur did not look like a "difficult" child.Honestly, he looked like a child struggling to reach his next birthday on his own. In an oversized, faded sweater, with bruises on his forearms, and a still unhealed, split lip, he definitely didn't resemble the little terrorist Phil had carefully guarded all sharp objects from. More like a victim of a natural disaster. As if he had spent hours on the roof escaping a flood, only to be carried away by a tornado.But burying the knives was still a good idea. The kid seemed to trip over while making a sandwich."Or: Phil feel ready to become a foster family.Spoiler: He's not ready.Less of plot and more of feelings. Also, fuck canon!Dadza! I want Phil to be a good dad!(Title from "Ready Now" by Dodie Clark)
Relationships: Technoblade & TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), TommyInnit & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Wilbur Soot & Phil Watson, Wilbur Soot & Technoblade & TommyInnit & Phil Watson, Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit & Phil Watson
Comments: 596
Kudos: 2098





	1. Chapter 1

Phil remembered the first time he had become a foster family.

He felt really well prepared: he took all possible courses, read a dozen books, spent a good week on the files of the new family member, trying to anticipate all the potential problems he would have to face. Even so, when Wilbur finally showed up at his house, real, material, and decidedly neglected, Phil was still surprised. He couldn't even define what exactly. Maybe it was that he was just expecting something different. After all, Wilbur had already gotten the label of a "difficult" child, and Phil, even though he knew it was stupid, expected him to be as stereotypical as possible about the trouble. He had expected screams, aggression and a complete lack of cooperation, so when he saw the boy for the first time, he wanted to say that there was a mistake.

Wilbur did not look like a "difficult" child. Honestly, he looked like a child struggling to reach his next birthday on his own. In an oversized, faded sweater, with bruises on his forearms, and a still unhealed, split lip, he definitely didn't resemble the little terrorist Phil had carefully guarded all sharp objects from. More like a victim of a natural disaster. As if he had spent hours on the roof escaping a flood, only to be carried away by a tornado. But burying the knives was still a good idea. The kid seemed to trip over while making a sandwich.

Phil tried very hard not to focus on the "little things." To see the bigger picture and a real, thinking and feeling child, not the billboard from a very sad social campaign. But it was damn hard for him, because Wilbur not only looked like a shadow of a man, but had obviously set himself the goal of literally becoming one. Apart from the silent "Good morning, sir", he didn't say a word, he moved practically silently, looking around the house as carefully as if he was already creating a detailed plan in 3D in his imagination and marking potential escape routes. And when the social worker finally decided to leave the newly formed family alone, for a second Wilbur looked as if he were seriously considering running and barricading himself in the car. Phil was so grateful that he didn't end up doing it. He felt the piercing, fearful gaze all too clearly on himself - he needed no more direct evidence that he wasn't a positive figure in the story at the moment.

He tried not to take it personally. He had a clearly scared child in his care now, and it was not time to wonder if it was a legitimate fear or not. Even though Wilbur flinched when Phil tried to put his hand on his shoulder and backed toward the door, suddenly breathing three times faster, and clutched his woefully empty bag to his chest, which would most likely hold his whole life, and my God, who hurt this child so bad, where can they be found, and how many years do you spend in prison for murder? Phil was sure that if he showed Wilbur's photo as evidence in the case, he would be acquitted immediately.

"Would you like to see your room?", he asked, making notes in his head. Don't make sudden movements, don't touch, don't think about murder. He quietly hoped that if he allowed the boy to calm down in some friendlier place, he might relax a little.

Wilbur didn't look as if he planned to calm down, but he nodded and allowed himself to be led up the stairs. At first, Phil wanted to let him go ahead, but after a second's thought, the last thing the baby needed was to be cornered with a stranger behind his back. He couldn't judge whether Wilbur appreciated his thought process. He was not at all sure if the boy was thinking about anything at that moment. His eyes screamed "run, run, run, run, run...!" but besides that, his face was completely indifferent.

"It's just me?", he made sure as Phil opened the correct door and gestured him inside. First real words! Three at once! Quite a full sentence! Maybe not very complex, but that's something.

"Just you," he confirmed, smiling as Wilbur looked around carefully and slowly, reverently, laid his bag down on the bed. In fact, he didn't have much to look at - a desk, an empty bookcase, and a wardrobe. "I know it's a little... a little empty," Phil cleared his throat, suddenly wishing he had tried to guess what a nine-year-old might be interested in. Knowing his luck, he would have shot badly, but at least you would have seen he was trying! "I had no idea what you like and if you have any hobbies..."

"It's okay, I like it a lot, thank you, sir" Wilbur put in, gasping out quickly and as if reading a script and afraid he would miss his dialogue. Phil resolved to pretend for the moment that it didn't bother him at all.

"It's empty" He repeated, raising an eyebrow. Wilbur looked down at the floor. "I thought it would be best if we went shopping tomorrow and you can choose the things you like. We need to buy you new clothes anyway. I have a few sets ready, but they probably won't be good for you."

To be sure, he looked the boy up again. He was tall for his age, but also way too thin. Phil hadn't gotten any information about the size he was wearing, so he shopped blindly and relied on the help of a cashier who was more familiar with what an "average" nine-year-old should wear. Wilbur, unfortunately, turned out to be very little of "average". Some of the shirts will probably still fit him, but the pants can be a bigger problem. It would be nice to visit the hairdresser as well, because his dark hair was beginning to fall over his eyes, and while it looked cute, it couldn't be very comfortable.

"So?" He asked when he got no reaction. Wilbur looked up and blinked, clearly distracted from some deep thoughts. Phil could practically see him analyzing the situation in his head and trying to guess what the correct answer was, panic growing in him every second. "Shopping. Tomorrow. What do you think?"

The boy relaxed his shoulders a bit.

"Oh. It's... Yes" He nodded slowly, then quickly added, "It's fine, sir."

It took Phil a lot of effort not to frown.

"You can call me Phil. I don't like being called "sir", I'm not that old."

If Wilbur was surprised, he hid it very well.

"Phil," he just repeated, as if he were getting used to the sound of the name.

The man grinned broadly.

"You can unpack if you want." He ignored the quiet thought that it would take the child exactly two seconds to empty the bag. It is not time to wonder "why", it's time to act to change things. "I'll be downstairs if you need anything. You can come down to me if you like, but if you prefer to be alone for a while, I'll call you to dinner in... I think an hour?" Wilbur nodded. Phil didn't even have to ask which option he chose. "The bathroom is directly opposite. I have prepared towels and a toothbrush for you, the rest are in the cupboard under the sink.

Wilbur nodded again. Phil tried to reassure himself that it could be worse. He could communicate by blinking morse code or by smoke signs. At this point, he wouldn't even be surprised anymore.

He hesitated, but knelt in front of the boy so that their faces were on the same level. He tried to do it slowly, and to some extent he seems to have succeeded, because Wilbur flinched but didn't back away. Phil graded himself a strong C - for good intentions.

"If you just need anything, _anything_ , don't be afraid to say it, okay?" He tried to sound confident but not intrusive. As if he really knew what he was doing and was ready for any eventuality. In fact, he neither knew nor was ready, but details, details...

"It's fine, sir... Phil."

The man sighed silently. He felt so it was not going to be easy.

"I want you to feel safe here, Wilbur, and I'll do my best to keep it that way, but sometimes I might accidentally do something that..." _...will touch some very delicate chord from your past and make you put traumatic memories on me and goodbye, positive relationship, you were never even here!_ "Something, that may be upsetting for you. If something like this happens, I'd like you to tell me about it. Even if it is something small. Alright?"

"It's..."

"Wilbur." Phil looked the boy straight in the eye. " _Alright?_ "

For several seconds, Wilbur watched him intently, clearly considering something. When he finally mumbled a quiet “Alright,” Phil was absolutely convinced that he had failed to gain even one percent of his trust. Maybe something like a half of procent, maximum. But it was always a half in the right direction.


	2. Chapter 2

Phil wasn't surprised when Wilbur didn't come downstairs of his own free will. It also did not surprise him that when he opened the door to his room to call him to dinner, the boy sat stiffly upright on the bed, busy staring intensely at the wall. The silence at the table was actually predictable too, but Phil was slowly running out of comfort points. Especially since it took a good minute to stab potatoes with a fork that he realized the boy was still staring at the empty plate.

"You don't like stew?"

Wilbur shrugged.

"It's fine."

Phil concluded that at this stage he would have responded enthusiastically to any term stronger than "fine", no matter which direction of the scale. Anything that doesn't sound like a very polite "I don't give a fuck, mentally I'm not even here."

The boy still made no move to prevent starvation, so after a moment's hesitation Phil pushed the bowl of nico meat closer to him.

"Take some?"

Wilbur's face remained indifferent, but he clearly relaxed and reached for his food immediately, as if he had just unlocked the feature. Lamp removed, Sim may walk through door.

Phil should definitely take a break from gaming.

But speaking of that ...

"Why don't you tell me something about yourself?" he suggested, and Wilbur immediately froze with his fork halfway to his mouth. He carefully put down the cutlery and straightened, looking at the man with full concentration. Phil was getting the damn strong vibration of the job interview from him, and he didn't like it at all.

"I have asthma. I take medication and it's usually fine, but I can't be out in the rain for too long or when it's cold because I'm getting worse." He hesitated for a second, a shadow of fear crossing his face. "Do you like incense?"

"Phil. And no, not really."

"Oh. Okay. Because it makes me sick sometimes. But if you... if you like, that's fine too."

Phil rolled his eyes.

"Yhm, you can always hold your breath for an hour or two," he joked, but stopped smiling immediately when Wilbur nodded quite seriously. "Hey, I'm just kidding. I know you are sick and the incense sticks are definitely not 'okay', you can get a astma atack from them. I got an inhaler for you, but do you have a spare?" Wilbur shook his head. Phil silently cursed the system as such and each and every family of the kid before him. "Okay, remind me later to make an appointment for you to see a doctor. I wouldn't like you to die in the middle of the night. There would be a lot of paperwork. Until then, if you just feel bad, no matter where, when or why, you have to tell me, okay?"

The boy confirmed again, this time for the first time, giving the impression that he was really relieved. Phil couldn't tell whether he disliked the vision of painful death so much or the smell of incense. He was ready to believe both options. But he still hadn't learned anything he was actually asking.

"I've read your file", he began again, from a slightly different angle. The worse one, apparently, because Wilbur's eyes widened for a second in silent fear. "I know you've changed schools a lot lately and you've been absent a lot. But you've had some really great grades so far, and I think if we explain your situation carefully, they'll still get you into the next grade. If necessary, we can slowly find a tutor for you to slowly catch up with the material. It may sound silly, but I don't feel competent enough to take responsibility for your homework myself. I'm afraid I'm already in school regress."

Wilbur frowned.

"What does it mean?"

"That I can calculate your budget for next year, but I don't remember what the capital of Finland is."

Wilbur rocked his chair nervously.

"Helsinki", he replied softly enough that if Phil weren't so hungry for any verbal communication, he might have missed it.

"Really? Whoa, that's good to know. To be honest I wasn't sure if I hadn't made up that country."

Wilbur pressed his back tighter against the back of the chair, his cheeks flushed pink.

"It's in Europe. Next to Norway. They have a white and blue flag with a cross. And a lot of dots above the letters."

Phil couldn't help feeling kinda proud. Shit, the kiddo was smart!

"Do you like school, Wilbur?"

He had to wait a second too long for an answer to be believed.

"It's fine."

Phil raised the eyebrow.

"Do you like school or do you like studying?" he clarified, and the way Wilbur pursed his lips and stabbed a potato was more than enough for an answer. "Okay, so you like geography? Something else? Books? Films?" He waited a few seconds of silence just to get a shrug. "You know, I really want to do something together, but you have to give me some tips. I don't want you to get bored."

"Anything you choose, sir..."

"Phil."

"Oh. Sorry. Whatever you choose will be fine, Phil."

Shit, he was starting to really dislike that phrase...

"Do you like video games?"

Wilbur hesitated.

"Sometimes I watched others play. But I couldn't use the computer. I could break something."

"I dare say you would destroy your own life by playing and nothing else", he snorted. Wilbur probably didn't understand, because he just looked at him with an unspoken question. Another note: stop joking. "If you want, you can play together any day. I definitely have some games... good for kids."

He didn't. He definitely didn't. Shit, he needed to add that to the shopping list.

Wilbur did not look particularly enthusiastic.

"If you like, sir", he agreed, in the same tone Phil used when a client asked for some extremely idiotic and worthless revision on an assignment.

"Phil", he corrected again, smiling, the boy hadn't thought he was getting impatient. Judging by the way he curled his arms, he thought anyway.

"Sorry, I didn't mean it, I forgot. Because always..."

"It's okay," he interrupted quickly. "Slowly, there's no rush. You'll get used to it eventually."

Something about Wilbur's expression told him he truly doubted it, and at first Phil wondered if he should just let go. But then the right thought clicked in his head, and he realized that the boy wasn't worried about uprooting habits. He just doesn't believe that he will spend time in his house so that it makes any sense to adjust to the changes.

Phil considered this might be the case. Wilbur has been in foster homes since he was four and has passed seven so far. He spent a year in the first and three years in the second. In five next - a maximum of a month. Whatever happened was definitely no good.

Most of the families did not give any reasons for sending the child away. Or maybe it was just too confidential data for anyone to share with Phil. The social worker described the boy as "difficult" and "attentive", which was something more specific and in no way coincides with anything Phil had seen so far. And he didn't like it when practice didn't matched theory.

Something was wrong, definitely.

For now, however, he had more important things to do with analyzing reality. Like that Wilbur yawned shrilly and pressed his back against the backrest, as if he had just blown out of air. Apparently, the meal and the stress did their job and worked as the ultimate sleeping aid. Phil honestly doubted he had slept even a minute last night. Not that he was much better himself.

"Tired?" The boy hesitated, but nodded. "I'm not surprised. That it must have been a stressful day." He looked at his watch. “How about if I show you the rest of the house and then take a bath and go to bed early? If we want to buy what we need tomorrow, we'll have another long day for everything.

Wilbur didn't answer, but got up from the table. He reached for Phil's plate, but Phil restrained him with a wave of his hand.

"Leave it and I'll take care of it."

This time he was sure - the boy was genuinely surprised. Still, he withdrew his hand and followed the man towards the kitchen.

"You can take whatever you want," Phil pointed to the cupboards, "but be careful with sharp objects, okay? Cereal are here, didn't see what you like, bought a few. Tomorrow you will show me which one you prefer. If you can't find something just, ask. Don't worry if you don't remember where you take something from, nothing has a permanent place here. I'm rather forgetful. And a thing I'm looking for is always in the last place I check. I have no idea how it happens."

He shook his head in silent disappointment with himself and turned to see if Wilbur wasn't overwhelmed by this overload of information. Immediately he felt an unpleasant cramp in his stomach, as the boy looked at him as if he were just lecturing in a completely foreign language on a topic he had never heard of.

"I can... take what I want?", he repeated slowly, as if he were almost sure he had heard something wrong.

Phil didn't like how disturbingly well this disbelief explained his thinness.

"Of course. That's what food is for", he assured him more seriously than he intended. "Just don't eat sweets before dinner. A healthy diet is more than pure sugar."

The corner of Wilbur's mouth rose slightly for the first time. Phil had no idea if it was the fact that he had finally made a joke or the receding vision of a hunger strike, but his heart grew a little lighter.

The tour around the house didn't take long, for the simple reason that there wasn't much to do. The upstairs guest rooms were disregarded by Wilbur, but Phil lingered a moment longer at the far end of the hall.

"This is my office. And this", he jerked a thumb at the door behind him, directly across from him, "is my bedroom. If you need anything, you can come see me at any time. Even if it's very late and you have to wake me up. Be warned, I sleep like a stone. I usually stay up late, work best in the evenings. But sometimes I chat with people via video chat, so let's make an arrangement to knock before you enter, okay?"

Wilbur nodded. Phil was pretty sure there was no "Of course, I understand, I will remember" nod but more like "I would sooner die in agony than come for help,". But temporarily he put the problem aside.

When Phil checked into his room two hours later, Wilbur was already asleep, curled up under the covers so tightly it seemed impossible to free himself from either of his limbs. Even while he was asleep, he looked tense and Phil could bet he would jump to any louder sound, instantly waking up and ready to run.

He wrote it down on his to-do list, he would have to work on. But not now. They had time for it. They had a lot, a lot of time for it, because God knows that a few hours with this child was enough to make him a point of honor to protect him from absolutely everyone.

The hardest part seemed to convince the child.

But slowly, in small steps.


	3. Chapter 3

Phil had no illusions that the task would be easy. If a child has trouble telling if he likes books or movies, it's hard to expect more cooperation when choosing... basically anything. Phil was ready for this, really, mentally getting ready all night, at breakfast and while driving, when Wilbur, when asked if he liked the song on the radio, replied, "It's fine". Everything was "fine". Everything he tried on was “fine”, even that horrible sweater that scratched Phil from a distance and without touching. "A new lamp was "fine", notebooks, a set of pencils and even a desk pad with characters from some fairy tale. Wilbur couldn't say which one in particular, but it was definitely "fine". As an absolutely every game, book, and toy that Phil shoved under his nose with stubborn hope, only to immediately put them back in the basket with resignation.

Not that he'd prefer the boy to be picky but for God's sake...

They had walked around most of the alleys before frustration finally took over, and, ignoring that he was most likely blocking the way for others, he knelt down in front of the boy to catch up with him.

"Wilbur. Please listen to me carefully. We have to buy you some books or toys or whatever 'cause, I'll be honest, it really freaks me out whenever you sit and just stare at the wall. And since we are already buying something, it would be good if it was something you like at least a little. Please, kid, I'm begging you... Do you like this whole "Potter" thing or not?"

Wilbur shifted nervously, his fingers tightening around the sleeves of his sweater. From the moment he entered the store, he was obviously uncomfortable in a place full of strangers, and Phil immediately regretted the additional pressure he had put on him. Maybe he should plan it a little better. Or buy things online like any normal person. But noooo, he felt like driving his car through half the city, traumatizing a child and experiencing an internal crisis in the least private place possible.

"It's fine", the boy finally muttered, shuffling his shoes on the floor.

Phil closed his eyes for a moment, mentally counted to ten, and sighed heavily. When he opened his eyes again, Wilbur was staring at him anxiously: his shoulders were tucked up, his lips tightened, and he looked twice as small as he really was.

Great. Fucking great. Now the kid thought he had done something wrong. Well done Phil, you are the best father in the world!

He tossed the first three volumes of Harry Potter into the basket along with possibly, maybe, potentially good sources of entertainment for the children, and straightened up, feeling both five times more resigned and ten times more determined. There had to be something to get any emotion from Wilbur, at least one thing he really wanted to get, and God knows Phil was going to find it, even if it took him all day!

Enlightenment came suddenly and from a completely unexpected side as they went back to the school department for a new backpack. If Phil had been a little less watchful, he would have missed the way Wilbur froze for a second, the way his eyes widened and flashed before he quickly looked away. But Phil was watchful. Watchful, determined, and obviously stupid, because how had he not thought about it sooner?

In the aisle between the shelves, packed in a large cardboard box, were maps.

Phil reached for one of them, practically feeling the boy's eyes on him.

"You like geography, right?", he made sure, turning the poster over in his hands. "We could hang it over your desk. I think it will fit perfectly. Or we could cut out the North Pole, I've always preferred the Arctic anyway. What do you think?"

Wilbur looked downright painfully torn as he looked from the floor to his hands, to the map and back to the floor, and for a second Phil thought he had done something wrong, misread the signals, misspelled words...

"It's fi-"

Oh, fuck it.

"Wilbur, _I can see_ you like it." It took a lot of effort to keep this voice at a sufficiently neutral level. "You can just admit it. If you like something, just say it."

He had serious doubts as to whether he should say such a thing. He really planned to give the child all the time and space they needed, whether it was something serious or as banal as shopping. He knew that sometimes it was better to let go, that Wilbur didn't trust him, that he had absolutely no reason to trust him at all, and it would probably be a long time before he felt safe with him. That he is not doing it on purpose or maliciously and is only trying to defend himself from possible harm. He hadn't stayed more than a month in any of the last five houses - he had no reason to trust it would be any different this time.

Phil _knew_ all this and he really, really understood. He _was trying_ to understand. But he was as confused as the kid before him, and he needed a clue as to what he should do. Any sign that he hasn't broke anything yet.

Maybe Wilbur sensed his desperation. Maybe he caught the silent request and decided to risk it once, on a trial basis. Maybe he had found a remnant of faith within himself and decided it was now or never. Or maybe he just really liked maps. But after a long moment of fighting with himself he finally nodded.

"Can I... Can I really have one?"

If Phil were a believer, he would thank God for an act of grace. Any god and all of them at once.

"Really. Definitely."

All the way home, Wilbur kept the map pressed to his chest as a most precious treasure, and Phil wasn't entirely sure if it was more of a touching or a heartbreaking scene. Has no one ever given him anything nice before?

Ten minutes later, as he pulled up in front of McDrive, he realized that apparently not.

"We'll get some food while we're here."

He pointed in the right direction, and Wilbur looked away from his new treasure for a full two seconds to peek out the window. He opened his mouth and Phil knew, he just knew what he was going to say and he hated how tired he felt. But then the boy pursed his lips, nervously rubbing one foot against the other for a moment, until the end mumbled "Okay." Phil never thought he would be so happy to move from two words to one.

"What would you like?"

Wilbur blinked.

"Oh. For... for me too?"

Phil shouldn't be surprised, and he probably wasn't by this point.

He just had to remember that it was wrong to murder a few people.

Wilbur never ate fast food. He didn't have to say it, the way he stared at his Happy Meal set was enough and the shocked expression on his face when he found out there should be a toy inside too.

" _In food?!_ "

Phil laughed as he glanced at him in the rearview mirror.

"Somewhere around. I hope. Go ahead", he encouraged when the child still hadn't even opened it. "Before it gets cold. There is absolutely nothing worse than cold fries."

Wilbur still looked like he was unlocking a bomb. Phil would have found it quite amusing if he had not already realized that the boy had really disturbing food approach. As if he didn't expect to get any of food, to be more specific.

He shifted his gaze to the road, trying to focus on something more pleasant. He couldn't change the past, whatever it was, but Wilbur seemed happy to sit in the back seat with a map in one hand and a box of chips in the other. Phil was going to make sure it stayed that way.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks a lot for all nice comments! They give me a lot of motivation.  
> This chapter is longer than the previous one. I tried to make the chapters of similar length but failed.

Getting to know Wilbur was like a very harsh version of an Advent calendar - each day Phil opened another door only to discover a new trauma. When he least expected it.

Like when he asked if he could throw away that horrible sweater Wilbur was wearing on the first day. And on the second day. And also on the third day... Phil has always been of the opinion that you should just let children choose clothes they want to wear, but when he saw the same outfit again, he felt compelled to intervene.

"You don't like your other clothes?"

Wilbur shrugged.

"I have no other clothes."

It took Phil a few seconds of vigorous stirring of the coffee to analyze each word and confirm that no, he hadn't missed anything. The sentence just didn't make sense.

"Literally yesterday we bought half of the store. It's impossible that everything suddenly doesn't fit you. I know children grow, but not that fast."

Wilbur pressed his back against the backrest, and only then did Phil realize his plate was still empty.

"Eat," he ordered, not even trying to ask why. For some reason, Wilbur never started a meal until he got a straight command. Phil preferred not to think too much about it. "You don't like any of your new stuff?"

The boy swayed nervously in his chair, concentrating on making the sandwich as neatly as if he were planning to put it on some contest. Clearly he tried to keep silent, but his nerves were too weak for that, and Phil was way too patient.

"The clothes can get dirty..." he finally muttered, more to his plate than to anyone else.

Phil had a strange feeling that he was starting to lose plot.

"That's why someone invented the washing machine. And probably also for the money, but let's stay with the first."

Wilbur pursed his lips.

"What if I wear them out?"

Now Phil was sure that not only had he lost the plot, he had never really known it. Wilbur evidently saw a different, deeper bottom in this conversation.

Phil hesitated. He didn't like playing games whose rules he didn't know.

"Like... on purpose?" He asked. Wilbur looked so horrified that it was more than enough for an answer. "Then that's okay. Accidents can hahappen". He frowned. "Were you afraid that I would punish you if you get your clothes dirty?" He got a short nod in response and felt like a bad person immediately. "Hey kiddo, come on. Things get dirty sometimes. On average, I burn my shirt with an iron once a week. It happens. But speaking of dirty... I really don't think it can be washed off." He pointed the sweater the boy was wearing. "I'm not sure if it will survive in the washing machine at all. If you really like it, next time we can look for a similar one... Wilbur." He sighed heavily, seeing the boy just shake his head, more and more panicked. "Please, just go and get changed, okay?"

For a second, Wilbur looked like a robot given conflicting orders - clearly torn between the urge to obey and protest.

"But you won't throw it out?"

In other time, Phil would be genuinely happy that the child begins to some degree of extremes with his own opinion. Allelluja, let us praise the Lord! But he was pretty sure it wasn't sentiment, sure that Wilbur hated that damn sweater just as much as he did. It was about something different, something more important, and he was determined to discover what.

"It's really used. And way too big for you."

"But it's mine."

"Wilbur, it's just an old sweater."

"But it's _mine_!"

"Same as fifteen others in your closet."

"But only while I'm here!"

It wasn't a scream. Not the way Phil was prepared for and expected. There was no anger in him, only despair and regret and a very, very soft plea.

Phil had never heard anything like it before.

"Wilbur..."

The boy cringed, hugging himself.

"This one is _mine_. I need it when… ” He pressed his lips together, his chin quivering. "I need it for later."

Phil took a deep breath and held his breath for a long moment, as if he could stop the entire universe with that. It has long been known that he will have to have this conversation. He was reading about it, getting ready, he had several monologues prepared, depending on which pattern the conversation would follow. He felt ready when he had a nondescript child in front of him in his mind, but as he looked at Wilbur, so real and alive in front of him, suddenly all the words sounded too banal.

"I'm not going to send you back," he said simply, painfully aware that he wouldn't believed it for himself.

The boy sniffed loudly, but when he looked up, his face was expressionless.

"It's fine," he replied in a low, indifferent voice.

"Wilbur..."

"I'll get changed."

Phil was sane enough not trying to stop him.

* * *

The second big unexpected discovery was neither big nor realy unexpected. Or at least it wouldn't be, if Phil hadn't made it a point of honor to be completely ignorant. He could convince himself that he was just trying to be positive about the world and trying not to assume the worst right away and some nonsense about seeing only good in people. In fact, he was a goddamn coward. If you close your eyes, plug your ears and repeat a million times, the problem will... No, it probably won't go away. But it will grow enough to disturb others as well and will eventually be taken care of by someone else.

Phil practiced this strategy through all his life, and he couldn't say he got off badly. The only difference was that his life made him alone, he was only responsible for himself, and if he screwed up, no one else felt harmed. Now he had a child in his care. Damn good reason to finally pull yourself together.

And yet Phil still pretended. He pretended not to see the way Wilbur flinched at every louder noise, how he ran away from physical contact, how bruises on his forearms only start to turn yellow and pale. He pretended not to spend any time at the door to the boy's room, hearing his soft, muffled cry, and trying to force himself to press the doorknob. That he couldn't see how red and swollen Wilbur's eyes were in the morning.

He didn't want to see it. It was easier not to see. Don't think too much about it. He already felt helpless enough.

He doesn't really know why he asked about it. Maybe it was a flash of common sense. Maybe a form of sabotage. Or maybe he was just sleepy and did not fully think about what he was saying.

"Are you religious?" he asked during lunch, when the boy, as usual, didn't even try to reach for his food, clearly waiting for permission. "You know, I've never been particularly religious myself, but if you need... I don't know, to pray before meals or something, that's no problem. You shouldn't be ashamed of it."

Wilbur's eyes widened, he opened his mouth, but just as quickly he closed it and shook his head.

"I don't know any prayer." He suddenly looked almost scared. "Should I know one? I can learn if you want."

"No no no no!" Phil shook his head quickly, trying to calm him down. "You don't have to learn anything, I just wanted to know. I thought that maybe that's why..." He tried to find a softest term, but he found out whatever he choose, it will be wrong in one of a million ways. "Why you have, like, eating problems."

Wilbur looked at him with as sincere astonishment as never before.

"I have no problems with eating."

Well, there was a lot of truth to that. Once he started, he could empty his plate in three seconds, as if afraid someone might take it from him.

_Don't think too much about it, don't think too much about it..._

"I mean..." Phil made an undefined motion with his hand, and seeing the disorientation in the boy's eyes slowly grow, he sighed heavily. Sometimes you have to give up and accept failure. He was clearly not meant to be subtle. "Wilbur, listen. You really don't have to wait for me to let you eat, okay? It's not that it annoys me" he add quickly "but it's a bit... I don't understand why you're doing this?"

He expected Wilbur to try to back off immediately, he would look away and start squirming in the chair as always when something stressed him out. But he seemed completely calm, perhaps a little surprised, but certainly not on the verge of escaping.

For some reason, it was even more disturbing.

"How else do I know if you're mad at me?"

Phil didn't answer right away. Not because he actually considered the hint. He just hung on a question and took a few seconds to digest it.

"Wilbur..." he began, but immediately fell silent a second time. Never in his life had anyone asked him questions about so many problems at once. He didn't even know which one he should mention first! "Wilbur. Could you- " Damn, choosing words has never felt so hard for him. "Could you explain to me why being angry with you would mean...?" Fuck it. "Wilbur, you didn't get _any_ food if someone was angry with you?"

Wow. Subtlety at its best. Great job Phil. That's why no one comes to you for comforting.

Wilbur looked away.

"Sometimes," he muttered, and on the first impulse Phil was glad he at least was aware of his own trauma. And then he let out a curse in his mind, because of course he wasn't. He was a child. He was ashamed that he did something wrong and now he had reproaches for it!

Okay. Slowly. You have to play it right.

"How often "sometimes" happened?"

The boy bit his lip.

"I wasn't doing anything on purpose," he said. "I just... Sometimes I was too loud, or I didn't do something on time, or I broke something, or..."

Phil silenced him with a single gesture.

"How often, Wilbur?"

Now he was sure - the kid was not only ashamed that he 'had' to be punished at all, but he was also clearly afraid that he would lose in his new guardian eyes because of it.

"Very often," he finally admitted.

Phil was starting to think that if God didn't want him to murder someone, he wouldn't let him meet this kid.

"Okay." He closed his eyes for a moment, rubbing his fingers at his temple. "Okay, that's... Very, very _not okay_. I have a lot to say about this parenting method, but some of it is very obscene and you shouldn't hear that... I- I need a moment to figure it out."

He took a deep breath, hiding his face in his hands for a second, trying to calm himself down, but when he looked at the child again, he realized that he have only made it worse. While earlier Wilbur had seemed utterly reconciled to the rules that had been instilled in him, now he clearly had no idea what was going on and, of course, began to feels guilty. Phil never signed up for this. He was going to have a "problematic" child in his care - "problematic" like " _I'm having trouble keeping him in check_ " not " _Keeping faith in humanity becomes an issue_ ". He sighed heavily.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you. It's just..." Sick. Abnormal. Absolutely unacceptable. Why did he have the strange feeling the boy would not understand? "Why would I even make you sit at the table if I didn't want you to eat?"

So much good that Wilbur still didn't seem to notice with how delicate the material they were working right now. Good. Very good. Phil just had to get that bomb from him before it exploded and everyone would be safe...

"The family always sits down at the table together." The boy's voice was dry and indifferent, as if he were quoting from memory a principle he had heard far too often. "If you don't deserve it," he shrugged, "you just don't eat."

Oh. So it fucking exploded.

Phil has never been a fan of using food as a form of punishment. Taking sweets from your child? Okay, maybe, possibly. Sending back to bed without dinner? A big, firm "No". Basic needs were not called that for nothing! What's next? No breathing? Exit to the bathroom only with permission? No wait, didn't the schools already practice the latter? Is it still possible to switch to homeschooling? Focus Phil, focus! 

Going to the punch line - he was never a particular fan. But forcing a child to sit at the table and watch everyone else eat... He believed that there are limits to being a shitty person. Humanity has once again decided to disappoint him greatly.

If Phil hadn't know Wilbur for a while, he would have excused himself, shut himself up in the bedroom, and smashed something very large and very glass. Unfortunately, he had a hunch that the very first point of this would lead the child to the brink of hysteria, so he just mentally counted to ten. Three times. And from the end.

It didn't make him feel much better, but he couldn't devote the rest of his life to analyzing the meaning of life in such shity world, and the broadly understood morality did not allow him to remain silent about the whole situation. Which, apparently, Wilbur has yet to come into contact with.

Slowly, very slowly, so that the boy had his hand in the search all the time, he reached over the table, covering his hand with boy's.

"We're not doing anything like that in this house, okay?", he said, trying to sound the softest. Wilbur nodded, quite automatically, never taking his eyes off their clasped hands. It was hard to judge what surprised him the most - that someone touched him or that he allowed to that. Phil smothered the needing to just hug him. "I'm very serious. There is absolutely no reason why I should want you to be hungry."

Wilbur looked him straight in the eye for the first time.

"What if I do something wrong?"

"Food is not a prize, Wilbur. You don't have to deserve it or anything like that. It's my goddamn responsibility to make sure you're not hungry. Do you understand me? Wilbur?"

The boy hesitated, but finally nodded.

"I understand."

He definitely didn't understand, but Phil didn't even dare to dream that he could manage the years of violence with one monologue. Still, he to smile and squeeze the boy's fingers a little tighter before withdrawing his hand.

"That's good. I am glad you do."

They sat in silence for a moment, Phil trying to pretend he hadn't lost his appetite at all, Wilbur chewing on each piece of his sandwich to the point where he had to gnaw the air. Phil could almost hear the invisible gears spinning in his head, trying to combine facts and analysis of everything that just happened. He could also indicate the moment when they failed.

Wilbur almost threw the leftovers of sandwiche on the plate.

"You're angry," it was more of a statement than a question. There was desperation in his voice.

When you experience only one pattern all your life, each change seams dangerous, like some new form of the same game, the finale of which will sooner or later hurt you in the old way. Phil might have wanted to change it, he might have wished with all his heart it had been different, but the fact was he couldn't snap his fingers and magically fix reality. He couldn't erase the past and cover the traces it left behind. All he could do is be patient and try, try, keep trying until Wilbur finally believes that there is no hidden bottom, that Phil really isn't going to hurt him and won't let anyone else do so.

"I'm not angry." Oh, he was so fucking angry... "Not at you. I'm... I'm furious, because someone hurt you. You didn't deserve what happened to you."

Wilbur's chin quivered. He lowered his head and stared at his plate as intensely as if he were trying to smash it by sheer willpower. But just as Phil was beginning to expect a breakthrough, the boy suddenly muttered:

"Can I go to my room?"

Phil didn't have the heart to say no to him.

He also didn't have the heart of trying to force him to do anything, when a few hours later he knocked on the door asking if he wanted to come down to dinner and was given a short "No thanks." He had left the plate of sandwiches on the table next to him, but he had little hopes for it, so he breathed a sigh of relief when he noticed the loss of food some time later. Maybe this day was not entirely lost and he achieved something. He tried to stick to that thought, working on the computer. He couldn't focus at all.

He made the right decision, right? He gave Wilbur a moment to think things over when he needed it, it's perfectly normal, everyone has moments like this sometimes. Following him and forcing him to discuss it felt wrong, like invading his privacy and putting pressure on him, but Phil couldn't shake the thought that he had somehow failed as a parent. He let the child sit completely alone, right after he threw a whole lot of information at him and tried to refute everything he had been taught. And even when it comes to help, even if he knew he was objectively right, it doesn't change the fact that Wilbur didn't know that. Phil was a complete stranger to him, who popped into his life out of nowhere and for a few days changed the game that started years ago.

He must have felt sooo confident and safe now. For fucking sure. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, I'm here to say that I'm Tommy apologist and If anything bad happen to my boy tomorrow, I will kill everybody in this fandom and then myself.
> 
> ✨Have fun!✨

It was almost two in the morning, when Phil was ready to admitt to himself that there was no point in tormenting the computer, since his thoughts were farthest away anyway. Being a very sensible person, he would go to the kitchen for another cup of coffee (you can't break your sleep schedule if you don't have one at all!) and almost paid for insomnia with a heart attack. He jumped when he turned on the light and saw a tiny figure in the back, but somehow managed not to drop the empty cup.

"God, kiddo! Do you want to kill me? Why didn't you turn on the light?"

Wilbur didn't answer, frozen in place like a deer staring into the headlights of a car. His chest rose and fell faster then it should have been, and his hands clutching a glass began to tremble.

"I just wanted a drink," he finally stuttered, his tone apologetic, as if he had been caught at least in a murder. "I didn't want to wake you up, sorry, I'll be quiet now, really, I promise...!"

He spit out the words faster and faster, and Phil instinctively raised his hands to calm him down. The effect was, unfortunately, quite the opposite, and the boy cringed, scared.

If Phil wanted to continue to delude himself that he was only oversensitive, he had just lost that opportunity. Wilbur has clearly been beaten in the past. And it didn't happened once or twice, or even three times. He was beaten frequently and, apparently, for absolutely everything.

Phil suppressed his anger and stepped back to give the child some more space.

"Hey, nothing happened. If you start to be even quieter... Can you be negatively loud? You know, like, minus five decibels…?” He shook his head. "Doesn't matter. Anyway, I wasn't sleeping anyway. Even so, you have every right to come and have a drink at any time."

Wilbur looked not entirely convinced, but he clearly relaxed. He didn't move away as Phil walked over to the sink to put the cup down, which was a small success in itself.

"You couldn't sleep?" A shrug. "Bad dream?"

Wilbur inhaled sharply and held his breath a good few seconds before nodding very slowly.

"Oh. Do you want to tell me about it?" He already knew the answer, but was pleasantly surprised that the boy hesitated before refusing. Little steps, little steps... "You know what always helps me sleep? Hot chocolate. What do you think?"

Wilbur shuffled his bare feet nervously across the dance floor.

"No, it's fine, thank you."

"Well, and I think it's not 'fine'. It will bother me if you can't sleep.

Wilbur bit his lip.

"Sorry..."

Phil, busy pouring milk into the pot, almost spilled it on the counter.

"For what?", he asked, genuinely surprised. What didn't surprise him at all is that he didn't get an answer. "Hey kiddo, calm down. Nothing happens. You don't have to be ashamed or anything, it happens sometimes. Everyone has bad dreams. Once I had a dream that I was killed by zombies. It was so real, I swear I sat for a good five minutes before it dawned on me that zombies doesn't exist. And then I went to the bathroom, looked at myself in the mirror and thought, "Oh. And there's one..."."

If Phil had a little more sense, maybe he would have considered the decision to let the nine-year-old be up at two in the morning. He was pretty sure all the books said something about making good habits and how that has a positive effect on kid's health. Fortunately, he didn't care at all. Otherwise, he might feel bad about how well he felt sitting with Wilbur on the couch in the living room, silently drinking chocolate, with the boy melting more and more into the back of the couch. He yawned and Phil laughed, but the merriment passed quickly as the boy raised his hand to rub his eyes, and his shirt sleeve slid off, revealing fading bruises. A few of them, right next to the wrist, were undoubtedly caused when someone's palm had tightened too tightly on it for too long.

Wilbur felt his eyesight followed him, and immediately pulled up his sleeve.

"Sorry," he gasped as he pulled his knees higher and pressed the cup tightly to his chest. Phil felt his stomach twist at the thought that he was most likely afraid to get hit for destroying the couch.

"Don't apologize," he asked more than he commended. He was too distraught for the moment, he took it too much personally when the child was clearly afraid of him. "You did nothing wrong, really, believe me."

Wilbur rubbed one bare foot against the other.

"Then why... why do I have them?"

Phil wasn't sure how to answer. He knew how he wanted to answer, but suspected that repeating the same thing over and over won't help much. He only had words at his disposal, while over the years, Wilbur saw very physical evidence that said something else entirely. He needed time. He had to earn boy's trust before his opinion could matter. He knew it, he understood it, but still... He still wanted to do more.

"Let me show you something, okay?" He waited a moment before the boy nodded, then rolling up the sleeve of his own shirt. Just above the elbow was a long, light scar. Phil ran his fingers over it. "I have a few more. When I was young, there was an accident. It was winter, there was a lot of ice on the road, our car skidded and hit a tree."

Wilbur's eyes widened in silent shock.

"Did it hurt?" he asked quietly, probably reflexively and completely without thinking, because immediately after that he put his hand over mouth and made a face as if he wanted to swallow his own tongue.

Phil tilted his head back, resting his back against the couch. He didn't remember the accident itself, nor the stay in the hospital after. In fact, he wasn't sure how he had existed for several months. All the memories of that period were wrapped in a thick fog that he never dared to enter it.

"Yhm. Like hell”, he nodded, though knowing Wilbur was asking about a completely different kind of pain. He lowered his shirt sleeve, mostly to find something to do with hands, even if for a second. "And, you know, after that... For a long time I thought it was my fault."

He didn't even have to look at the boy; he could feel his intense gaze, and hear the question even before it was spoken.

"Why?"

Phil closed his eyes for a moment.

There was no one reason. Just hundreds of little, inconspicuous things that he could and couldn't do and somehow that was even worse. As if the world were giving him warning signs which he stubbornly ignored that night.

It was dark. And slippery. Everyone was tired.

But he just wanted to go home and he couldn't _he couldn't know_ that he would lose this home soon.

He opened his eyes and for several long seconds he just stared at the ceiling.

"Because I didn't want to understand that... that sometimes bad things happens for no reason. Sometimes it's easiest to blame ourselves and think that we've done something wrong to deserve all of this. Because then you can just promise that you will never do it again and that you will always be good, and then nothing so terrible will happen to you ever again. Nobody will hurt you if you don't give them a reason. But the world doesn't work that way, Wilbur. There are accidents, and there are people who hurt you just because they can, because they want to hurt you. And you can be the best version of yourself, you can be good, but they always find some reason anyway. You're a good kid, Wilbur." He smiled, trying to put so much warmth into these words, so much confidence that the boy would actually believed them. "You are smart and kind and I can see it after a few days, so if someone couldn't see it... they simply didn't want to and didn't look for it."

He wasn't sure exactly what reaction he was looking for, but he was definitely looking for something. He hadn't expected Wilbur to agree with him, he wasn't that naive, but maybe a glimmer of understanding, or even confusion, meaning that the child was trying to process what he had just heard. But Wilbur didn't say a word, and although his eyes glazed visibly and his hands into fists, his face his face stained indifferent as he turned and rested his cheek on his bent knees.

It took a minute, five, finally ten minutes, before Phil realized his breathing was deeper and calmer. Another two minutes, the muscles relaxed and the boy's body pressed sideways against the back of the couch. A dozen or so seconds and Phil managed to take cup out of his hands and put it back on the table. When he looked again, Wilbur was already asleep, his face pressed against the pillow. For the first time since meeting him, he looked as calm as a child should look, and Phil felt a pain in his heart at the thought that as soon as he woke up he would immediately return to his nervous gaze and tense arms and sneaking around the house so quietly. He hesitated, but finally reached for a blanket lying on one of the armchairs and very carefully placed it over the boy. Something told him that if he flinched at every possibility of being touched, it might not be a particularly good idea to try to move him to bed. He had left the kitchen light on, in case Wilbur woke up at night and wasn't sure where he was.

Phil was pretty sure he wouldn't fall asleep himself. Common sense dictated that he did everything he could. His heart reproached him for not trying enough.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 🦀 DREAM IS GONE 🦀

Phil believed everything was going well. Okay, maybe Wilbur was still hesitating before reaching for his food, and okay, maybe they never got back to talk about his bruises again, and okay, maybe they didn't bring up serious topics at all, but still - it was better. They spent more and more time together, they got to know each other, the boy began to compose compound sentences, sometimes more than one at a time... What more could he ask for?

Phil even managed to convince him that he wouldn't destroy the computer by just breathing in its direction, and even if he somehow managed to do it, no one would make a tragedy about it. Wilbur turned out to be... objectively, absolutely hopeless in car racing games and was over the railing faster than back on track.

"You're doing great," Phil praised him, making a mental note in his head to never let him get a driver's license. "If you practice a little more, you will definitely reach the finish line!" It would have sounded less sarcastic if their car hadn't picked that moment to roll across the track and crash into another car. "Well... That was close one..."

Wilbur turned away, hid his face in his shoulder, and for a second the man feared he was felt sad. But then the boy looked up at him, and Phil realized he was laughing.

"You're funny."

Phil replied with an equally broad smile, completely reflexive and without a second's hesitation. He had never felt so happy about a compliment in his life. And he probably never considered that he should praise Wilbur more often.

"Well done," he tried that same afternoon, when Wilbur was helping him to weed the garden. They didn't have much to do, Phil wasn't a huge fan of gardening, all he wanted was a few carrots and fresh strawberries in the summer. Something that would force him to spend some time outdoors, but didn't require skills he just didn't have. "You will be the perfect helper."

Wilbur froze with a spatula in one hand and a clod of dirt in the other.

"Hey, hey! Don't eat sand!"

The boy flinched out of a trance.

"I didn't eat sand," he snorted, and then looked at Phil vigilantly to make sure he wouldn't be scolded for 'the tone'. "I can take care of garden if you want."

"I wouldn't say that it needs to be "taken care" in some way. It'll be nice if you help me here sometimes, but it's not your responsibility." 

Wilbur frowned.

"Oh. Then what should I do?"

Phil suspected there was some secret answer that needed to be given to make the boy satisfied.

"Wash the carrots so we can eat them."

"But at home."

Yes, definitely a secret answer. Which, apparently, he still hadn't guessed.

"Live here?" risked. The child looked at him in such a way as if only respecting his old age was stoping him from calling him an idiot. Well, he definitely felt like an idiot. Especially a second later, when he finally understood what it was about. "Oh, are you asking about some chores or something? Honestly, I didn't think about it... Let's make an deal that I will not enter your room without asking, but you will keep it clean. I don't want to accidentally throw away something important. And if you grow an alien life under your bed, you will have to feed it and take it for walks yourself. What do you think?"

Wilbur shrugged.

"If you say so..." he muttered, going back to picking carrots. There was disbelief in his voice, but also a ton of relief.

"I say so. But speaking of duties…" Phil brushed the dirt off his hands and turned to the boy. "I spoke to the principal of the new school. If you feel up to it, you can start on Monday."

Wilbur bit his lip and Phil could bet he was counting hard just how many days left before Day Zero.

"Okay," he nodded, this time much, much more quietly and definitely unenthusiastically.

"For sure? I can try to negotiate a little more."

"No, it's fine," he said quickly, but Phil had already managed to get his hands shaking.

"Hey kiddo." He reached for his hand, squeezing lightly. Wilbur sucked in a breath but didn't back away. "It's okay if you're stressed. I would be surprised if you weren't"

The boy pursed his lips as he stared at their joined hands. For a second Phil could bet his fingers twitched, as If he wanted to return the hug, but at the last moment he gave up and instead pulled his hand back, pressing it tightly against his chest.

"Can I go home?"

Deep down, Phil sighed very, very heavy.

"Sure. But Wilbur." The boy stopped in a half-step. "It's okay if you want to be alone. But if you want to talk about something, anything, or if you just want to spend time with me... just say it. Okay?"

He couldn't see his face, but the way Wilbur pulled his arms down, Phil could imagine a face he made.

"Okay."

Phil know it's not good. Not as good as he would like it to be. But it was still _better_ , and that was all that mattered. They were going in the right direction.

* * *

They weren't going in the right direction. 

He should have been foresight. When you open an Advent Calendar, the last door always has the biggest surprise. He could have predicted that it would be the same with Wilbur, he was getting signs on all sides, but for some reasons he ignored them all. He ignored the red eyes at breakfast on Friday, ignored the lack of appetite on Saturday and the fact that he had heard maybe three sentences from the boy all through Sunday. Ignored that Wilbur retreat again and flinched at every louder noise. Ignored that he looked like he was going to cry as Phil helped him pack his backpack and choose his clothes that evening.

He blamed everything on the usual stage fright. He was there once too, he remembered how stressful any changes could be. Wilbur had been through it for the sixth time in the last five months - no wonder it was starting to overwhelm him. Phil has personally spoken to most of his new teachers just to make sure that none of them would come up with a brilliant idea to drag the kid to the front of the class and have him "tell something about himself", or ask any questions that would be normal for any other child , but in this particular case could be just... wrong.

He did everything he could, or so he thought. He assured Wilbur many times that everything would go well, and even if not, the world would not end. He tried to ask if the boy was afraid of something specific, but each time he bounced off the wall of silence, so in the end he gave up and decided to wait for further developments.

After all, he got what he wanted. Only faster than he expected - he was sure they would actually reach the school. One glance at Wilbur as he descended the stairs was enough for him to know that even this could be a problem.

"Are you okay?" He set the last plate on the table and walked over to the boy.

He reached out to touch his forehead, but Wilbur jumped back as if burned, stumbled over the last step, and landed his back on the steps. Phil cursed under his breath and immediately regretted it. Wilbur stared at him fearfully, flushed, eyes wide, clear shadows under them. His face was pale, his hands clenched into fists, and his chest rose and fell in fast, shallow breaths.

Phil took a step back to give him more space.

"All good? Did you hurt yourself?" Wilbur shook his head, quickly and briefly. "I just wanted to see if you have a fever."

Wilbur didn't answer right away. In fact, he looked as if it was costing him more energy than he should to produce any sound. Even then his voice was weak and tremulous.

"It's fine."

Phil grimaced. Just as it started thing that this damn sentence finally died - of course it had to come back. And of course Wilbur immediately interpreted his expression in the only known way and cringed even more. Of course.

Why did he even assume it was going to be a good day?

He took one more step back before he knelt down to the make better look at the boy.

"Are you sure? You look pale."

Wilbur look away.

"I'm nervous..." he muttered, which, in fact, sounded quite convincing. First, because he actually looked like a ball of nerves, second: it made a lot of sense in his situation. Phil was still not entirely convinced, but on the other hand, Wilbur had a tendency to overreact from the start. He had reasons to do so, of course, but it was still nothing new and surprising.

"You wanna stay home?" Phil wasn't entirely sure if that's what a model parent should say, but screw that. Apparently, he was the type of parent who put health above education. Too bad, in the end a kid's gonna be under-educated, but at least he won't have a heart attack before he's 30. "I can call the school and we will reschedule it to another day."

Wilbur shook his head, even faster than before.

"It's fine," he repeated, and at last, as if in evidence, stood upright. Phil frowned. You could bet it was definitely more trouble than it should have been. As if he had to send each limb a separate invitation to cooperate.

He was very reluctant to accuse the child of lying, but he couldn't help but think... well, that he was lying. Why - was a mystery to him, but he kept his eyes on the boy when they finally sat down at the table together. Especially since Wilbur made absolutely no move that would indicate he was actually going to eat anything.

"Eat," he encouraged him, mentally resetting the 'Days Without Trauma Recurrence' counter, but to his surprise the boy just shook his head.

"I'm not hungry," he muttered into his plate.

Phil opened his mouth as he prepared for a long monologue about improving daytime functioning, but changed his mind as he saw the boy's watery eyes. He could practically feel the tension in the air, a mixture of stress and fear, and something like expectation. Like the silence just before the storm.

Something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong, and whether it was school or anything else he was going to find out.

He took a deep breath, but before he could do anything, three things happened one after the other faster than he could have predicted.

The boy reached out for his glass, but his hands were shaking to the point that he knocked it over, spilling the juice.

Instinctively, Phil reached out to save the tablecloth from being completely flooded, and immediately realized that he had made a big mistake.

Wilbur practically jumped in his chair, raising his arms to shield his head, and made a low, high-pitched noise, something between a screech and a muffled scream. It took Phil a moment to realize that it was in fact a string of "sorry" repeated on the exhale. He immediately felt that he himself was on the verge of collapsing.

"Wilbur, hey, you need to calm down." He tried his best to calm the child and himself at once. "Nothing's happening, okay? Everything is fine, nothing is happening, _you have to breathe_ , please...!"

Wilbur either didn't hear him or he completely ignored him. When he lowered his hands, his eyes were wild and unfocused, his lips tight and face almost greenish. He jumped up from his chair and, pressing his hand to his mouth, ran up the stairs. Phil immediately followed him, but when he reached the mark, all he could do was see and hear the bathroom door slam.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've tried replying to comments, but I'm sooo bad at it and I never know what to write, like, writing "Thank you" five times in a row seems rude? And it makes me stress??  
> ...I think about it way too much.  
> I just want everyone to know that I am very grateful for every comment, I read each one a million times and they give me a huge amount of serotonin.


	7. Chapter 7

_Okay, slowly, take it easy, don't screw it up Phil, don't fuck it up or you'll never forgive yourself..._

"Wilbur?", He knocked on the door, trying to sound calm, not as if he was three seconds from panic. "Wilbur, are you okay?"

In response, he heard a familiar and definitely unpleasant sound. Wilbur was vomiting.

Okay, pros and cons. Pros: he's still alive. Cons: _everything else!_

"Wilbur, I'm going in", He pressed the handle and... nothing. He pressed again, pushing against the door a little harder. Still nothing. Locked. Fuck. "You closed the door?!" He really didn't want to sound so aggressive, but fuck, fuck, fuck...! "Wilbur!"

He knew it was stupid, but he tugged the door handle again. Surprisingly, the door didn't automatically unlock in the last five seconds. Okay, okay... You have to use common sense and think rationally, gather facts, analyze the situation...

He heard muffled sobbing from the bathroom.

Fuck common sense.

He had never expected himself to be so graceful that the bathroom door swung inward. Or that he hadn't replaced them with new ones when he had the opportunity. The current ones were old enough, and after three strong stabs with the shoulder, the lock gave way with a thud. Phil held on to the doorframe to keep his balance and immediately looked around the room. In the very corner, more under the sink than next to it, Wilbur, if possible, curled even tighter. His whole body was trembling in spasmodic crying, he was gasping for shallow breath, and when his gaze met Phil's, he immediately raised his hands, hiding face behind forearms.

"Wilbur..." Phil immediately felt his determination leave him. Now that he had finally had the baby in front of him, when he should actually do something... he had no idea what. Only after the boy took a deeper, wheezing breath and immediately began to cough, Phil awoke from shock. "Shit. Stay right here, I have to bring..."

"No!" Wilbur practically lunged forward, grabbing his hand tightly. "Please don't! I-I'll be calm now, really, and I'll be quiet, I promise, really!" Phil froze in a half-step, feeling as if someone had hit him right in the head with something heavy. First, on the one side, because the scream sounded like the boy was fighting for his own life. And then on the other, when he realized that he probably really believe he's fighting for it. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, _sorrysorrysorry_ , please, don't...!

"Wilbur!" Phil was pretty sure that scream wasn't the best solution, not even good or average, or even harmless one, but with every second of listening to the despairing plea, he felt something inside him die.

Somewhere in the world there was a man who heard this child, looked at it in this state, and not only didn't try to comfort him, but also...

No. It wasn't a good time to think about it. This wasn't a good time to wonder what Wilbur thought he was going to do to him. This's the moment to show him he's wrong. Phil had no idea how he planned to do it, but God knows he'll die sooner than quit.

"Hey, hey, shhh, it's okay." Slowly, as slowly as his muscles would allow, he crouched down in front of the child, keeping his hands in view all the time. Wilbur immediately stepped back, pressing his back tightly against the wall, huddling so hard that only a few frightened eyes could be seen between his dark fringe and knees. "I'm not going to hurt you, okay? I would never hurt you." Even though he knew the boy wouldn't believe him, not right now, he still deluded that if he only repeated it often enough... "I wanted to get your inhaler. Do you think you can do without it?" Wilbur nodded. Which would have been more convincing if at the same time he didn't sound like he had to fight a long, hard battle for every gulp of air. Which he lost sometimes. But Phil had a strong feeling that leaving him alone at this point would not make it any better. "Okay okay. Can I sit here? I promise not to try to touch you, but I need to know you're okay."

Wilbur sniffed loudly.

"I'm sorry" The crying slowly turned to hiccups, which was a good sign, but Phil would appreciate it much more if he were sure the boy wasn't about to suffocate. "I-I'm so... so sorry."

"Shhh, It's okay..." It cost him all his will to at least not to try to hug the boy. How else was he supposed to calm him down? "You did nothing wrong."

Not with words, apparently, because Wilbur buried his face in his hands, and the way he took his breath... well, he was definitely not on the way to nirvana.

"I did!" The scream echoed off the bathroom and Phil flinched. It was the first time he had heard Wilbur really, really angry. The fact that he was probably angry with himself didn't make things better. "You've been nice to me. And you never even yelled at me. And I like living here. And... And I destroyed everything and now you don't want me anymore!"

Phil wasted precious three seconds processing data before his brain finally worked out any reaction. And even then it was a pure shock.

"Wilbur, what are you...?"

"I tried, I really did! But it... it was too much, everything at once and... and...! It's always like that, every time! Why... why can't I just be normal?"

Phil was sure if only he was able to focus on anything else, he would hear his own heart crackling.

"Wilbur. Hey kiddo, listen to me." He leaned forward, trying to look the boy straight in the eyes, still keeping your distance. "It's not true that I don't want you. I told you, remember? I said I wasn't going to send you back."

He should have said it more often. He should have said it more firmly. He should have made sure Wilbur really understand, damn it, he screwed it up, how could he screw it up like that at the start...?!

Wilbur grimaced, wiping his eyes with sleeve.

"Everybody says that." His voice was full of bitterness and pain. "Everybody always say that and then it happens and I have to pack again and... I don't want to pack. I like my room. I like my map. I…” He inhaled sharply and began to cry again. " _I don't want to wear that sweater anymore...!_ "

"Oh, Wilbur..." If Phil still had any strength to control his emotions, he just lost it. "Can I hug you?" He asked with desperate hope, but the boy only opened his eyes wide and shook his head. "Too much? Okay. It's okay.

Wilbur's gaze softened, it clearly reassured him that someone was actually taking his opinion into account. He rested his forehead on his bent knees and hugged himself for a moment before slowly, still blindly, stretched his hand out in front of him.

"Can you...?"

Phil needed no hint.

Wilbur's hand was warm, trembling, strangely small compared to his own. Phil immediately realized that he could definitely get used to it. To the desperation with which the boy squeezed his fingers and how his breath stopped for a second as the man returned it.

It took a good half an hour for Wilbur to finally calm down. His eyes were still wet and his muscles clearly tense, but his breathing was much calmer, and he even glanced at Phil every now and then, as if checking to see if the man was still with him. He still hadn't released his hand either.

"You think you can get up?" No matter how good he felt with the trust he had been placed in, Phil definitely preferred to move somewhere more comfortable. "You should take a nap. You must be exhausted."

Wilbur nodded and, propping himself on the walls with his free hand, he struggled to his feet. He silently allowed himself to be led into the room and slipped under the blanket without hesitation, but his head jerked up as Phil tried to remove his hand from his grip.

"Can you... Can you stay a while? With me?", he asked and immediately looked as if he wished he had spoken at all. "But you don't have to! I just..."

Phil smiled as he sat on the edge of the mattress.

"It's fine", he said simply.

Because in fact - it was fine.


	8. Chapter 8

Much less "fine" was twenty minutes later when he searched the phone for the number of the social worker responsible for Wilbur. God knew he wasn't sure what he was doing this for. To get some confirmation? To complain? To murder someone, over the phone and remotely?

"Hey, this is Phil Watson," he began as soon as someone on the other side answered the call. "I'm calling about Wilbur."

For a few seconds, all he could hear was silence. And immediately after that - a long sigh.

"What did he do?" Someone asked in a very bored voice, and Phil immediately hated him for his too clear, unspoken 'this time'.

His fingers tightened on the phone. He could still feel the warmth of Wilbur's hand, and that was probably the only thing that kept him from snap at the first thing that came up.

"He had a panic attack. I couldn't calm him down for a good hour."

Another few seconds of silence.

"Oh." The man on the other side (Nate, Phil was sure his name was Nate) didn't even try to pretend to be surprised. "Yes, that sounds like a problem."

Phil gritted his teeth so hard he was sure he was going to break them.

"I think so too."

"Is he better now?"

"Sleeps. I think he'll be okay, I hope so."

Nate purred understandingly.

"That's good." His voice sounded much more muffled, with keyboard tapping in the background. Phil was pretty sure the man was holding the phone with his arm so he could check on the computer. He very much hoped it was something at least minimally related to the matter. "Unfortunately, I'm afraid I must ask him to stay with you for a few more days. We really don't have anywhere to put him at the moment, and he took his last stay at group house very badly. I think we'll find something by the end of the week, but probably not sooner."

Phil slowly lifted the phone away from his ear, studied it for a few seconds to make sure that yes, the words were coming from there and, yes, directed at him.

"Excuse me?"

Nate sighed even louder, even heavier and even more weary than before.

"I know it's a difficult situation, but we really don't have the option right now...".

Phil felt himself getting hot. Out of frustration, bitterness, but most of all - absolute anger.

"I'm not going to send him back to you!" He almost yelled, and immediately looked fearfully toward the stairs. He really didn't want to wake Wilbur with a scream. He tried to lower his voice, but he couldn't do much with the obvious annoyance. And he didn't really try to. "I'm not sending him back. Why would I do this? It's just a child! He didn't murder anyone, he just…" He took a deep, calming breath. It didn't help, but at least he could tell he had tried. "I just want to know if this has happened before?" The silence in the receiver was more than enough for an answer. "Ah. So it did."

"Mr. Watson..."

"Okay, okay. Now I understand why his file doesn't say why he was kept being sent back. I would also not admit that I am throwing the boy out because he's scared and he's fucking crying!"

Nate was smart enough to ignore the last outburst and not comment.

"We've had reports that he has..." For a moment he looked for an appropriately wise-sounding formula "difficulty expressing emotions."

Phil wanted to laugh. And scream. And cry, in fact, too...

"Difficulty with... He locked himself in the bathroom! I had to break down the door!"

"I am very sorry for this."

"I thought he was going to suffocate! Christ...!" He hid his face in his hands. If Wilbur had to spend his whole life in this damn system, no wonder he was what he was. "Has anyone ever taken him to see a specialist?"

"He's under the constant care of a pulmonologist and..."

"I'm not asking about his asthma!" Okay, now he mostly wanedt to cry. "Is there anyone competent nearby? Anyone?"

Nate sighed a third time.

"Mr. Watson, I really think you should calm down a little first. I assume it was a very difficult day..."

"Oh _really_?!"

“…And this conversation is really going nowhere. I propose to postpone it to another day and then we will see what we can-"

If Phil had been a little closer to his sane, he might even have appreciated the offer. But he was as far away as possible from it, so he didn't wait to find out when or what they can do. Without a word, he disconnect and tossed the phone on the couch, then sat down heavily.

Okay. Okay. Peace, only peace could save him. And maybe a little bit of productivity, because God knows if he'll just sat and thought about this whole damn day...

He cleared the plates off the table, realizing suddenly that not only had Wilbur not eaten anything today, but he had most likely emptied his stomach of absolutely everything left in him since supper. When he wakes up, he'll be hungry as hell. And he probably won't mention it. Most likely he won't mention anything. Most likely he'll be ashamed and scared and won't voluntarily bring up the topic.

They could play it this way. To keep silence about everything and pretend that the matter is settled, that all the most important things have been said, and that is enough. Phil was damn good at it. Circling the subject and dealing only with the issues he had previously hit straight in the face and the existence of which he could no longer ignore.

He tossed the plate into the water a little more aggressively than he had planned, and rested his hands on the sink, staring unseeingly into space. Was he a bad parent? He was definitely a coward, and he must have made at least a dozen mistakes in just a week, but did that mean he was already crossed out as a good guardian? He really tried, he really cared and thought carefully about each decision, so how come it still all went wrong? Looking objectively, he knew that most things were beyond his control. Wilbur's past was not his fault. He had the right not to know, he had the right not to understand, he had the right to be surprised and confused and not know what to do. The thing was, Phil didn't know how to look at Wilbur objectively. Everything seemed simple and clear before the boy appeared in his house, when he was just an nameless child. The boy sleeping upstairs was no longer nameless. The boy who cried in the bathroom was no longer an example in the textbook. The boy who took his hand, who didn't want to be left alone, whose smile made Phil feel happy too...

This boy deserved the best. He deserved someone who knows, who understands, who has a little bit of a clue what he is doing.

This boy was...

A pair of bare feet tapped softly against the steps, and Phil almost automatically reached for a cloth, wiped his hands, and leaned out to glance at the sitting room. It might have been less than an hour since he had left Wilbur alone, and he had, in truth, quietly hoped the boy would sleep the rest of the day. he definitely looked like it needed it. And yet he was standing on the last step now, hair messy, rubbing his eyes with the sleeve... oooh, the old sweater is back! What a goddamn surprise!

Phil had no idea what to do. He had no idea what to say. So, of course, he dropped the first thing that came to mind.

"Are you hungry?"

He wasn't. Of course he wasn't. He was the most surprising and yet predictable child Phil had ever met.

"I'll make you a sandwich," he decided, because he really might have been a lousy parent, but he wasn't stupid and blind. Not that much, anyway. "Do you want something to drink? I think tea would be good for your stomach. Do you like mint?"

"I packed my things."

Phil closed his eyes with a deep sigh. Tea will have to wait.

"Sit down," he asked, pointing to the couch and sitting himself in the corner so the boy could decide what distance he wanted to keep between them. He wasn't surprised when the child practically pressed himself into the opposite support. It hurt a little, but didn't surprise. "Wilbur... We need to talk about what happened."

Wilbur pulled the sleeves of his sweater so tight that it almost fell off his shoulders.

"I'm sorry," he muttered.

If he looked up, perhaps he would see a shadow flit across the man's face and understand that this is one thing he definitely shouldn't say. But his eyes were fixed on his own lap, and he clearly had no idea he could say anything else at all.

Phil took a deep breath and held it for several seconds. He had to find the right words, to play it right, and for once not to screw up.

"I'm not angry with you", he noted at the beginning. "You've done absolutely nothing wrong."

Wilbur curled his arms tighter, and his fingers, still clenched on the yellow cloth, began to tremble.

"I closed the door. And you couldn't come in."

"You closed the door because you were scared" Phil tried his best to make his voice sound steady and gentle. Which would be much easier if he didn't want to sit down and cry himself. "And I broke down the door because I was afraid for you. Screw the door, I'd break it five more times if I had to. I just wanted you... not to get hurt. And I wanted to help you somehow. I know it didn't go perfectly, to be honest I had no idea what to do but..."

"It's fine" Wilbur said, glancing at him for the first time. Just for a second before he looked away again, but still. "You weren't yelling at me. It helped."

"Why would I yelled at you?" Phil couldn't help feeling genuinely offended. "You were terrified!"

"I made a scene."

"Wilbur, you didn't 'made a scene'. You had a panic attack."

The boy frowned and didn't answer immediately, clearly busy analyzing the new term and trying to determine whether the change was for the better or for the worse.

"Oh," he finally muttered, his shoulders visibly relaxing.

Phil would like to stop there. He would prefer to leave it as it is and not pursue the topic, for fear that if he kept digging in it, he would actually dig into something. And sooner it will be a find worthy of attention of sappers, not archaeologists. But whatever he said and whatever philosophy he followed, nothing explained making the same mistake over and over again.

"Does that happen often?" He asked, deeply hoping for a negative answer.

"More often recently."

Well. So much for hope.

"Is it always... that bad?"

Wilbur shrugged.

"This one wasn't the worst," he muttered, and Phil was pretty sure he would stop there, but to his surprise, the boy hesitated, bit his lip, and stared at his fingers for a moment, alternately tightening and loosening his grip on the sleeves of his sweater. "Once..." He tried again, much, much more quietly. "With my other family, I... really thought I was dying." His voice trembled, and Phil for a moment forgot that he had to breathe too. "I kinda... I kinda wanted to die. It was really terrible an... They had to take me to the hospital and... And they didn't want me anymore. And then, whenever it happened, they... "He wrapped his arms around him and sniffed loudly. "Nobody wanted me after that..."

Phil never believed that there was such a thing as Karma. If people actually got only what they deserved from life, the world would be a little less shit, a little safer, and a lot less overcrowded. But as he looked at the child sitting next to him, he really wanted to believe that whoever had ever hurt him would pay for it someday.

"Wilbur. You're not going anywhere, okay? I'm not going to give you to anyone. Neither today nor tomorrow nor... nor ever. There is no way anyone would force me to send you off."

Wilbur didn't even look at him. He didn't have to. Phil could read absolutely all emotions on his face. And neither of them indicated that he believed what he was hearing at least a little.

"Why?"

Phil was afraid of that question. Not because he didn't know the answer. It was more obvious than anything that has ever happened in his life. But as he tried to say it out loud, he realized that he didn't know any word that could contain all the emotions that filled him. He could tell himself that he just wanted to help. That it is about compassion and ordinary human empathy. Wilbur deserved to finally have a home, to finally feel safe, to have someone who really cares for him. But he knew very well that there was more to it. That as much as he wanted the boy to be happy, he also wanted to be the one who would make him happy. He was not naive. He'd known Wilbur for only a week, and he knew deeper feelings don't come overnight, that it takes time to bond with someone, that love at first sight doesn't exist, no matter what kind. That you can't just look at someone and know... Just know.

And yet Phil just knew. From the moment he saw Wilbur for the first time, something in his heart, mind, soul, all of him had snapped into right place and he knew, he just knew.

Wilbur was his child. His son.

It was too early to say it aloud. Much, much too soon. But there was still something he could and should have said.

"Because... I always want to be there so I can check that you're okay. And check if you need someone to break down the door. And I want to know if you're not hungry. If you're fed up with clean sweaters. And if you don't eat sand. And I want to see the moment when you finally make it to the finish line." Wilbur's mouth twitched in a faint smile. "And I need someone who knows which country has the capital in Helisinki."

He reached out and carefully closed the boy's hand in his. He could hear his breathing, much, much calmer, but he could still see the uncertainty and hesitation in his eyes.

"You can just check on the map."

Phil squeezed his fingers a little tighter.

"I can," he admitted. "But I don't want to."

For a long moment they sat in silence, pleasant and reassuring, full of mute assurances and promises. Phil could feel Wilbur's gradual loosening, how the unfortunate sleeves were no longer tiring, the residual tension vanished from his face. He looked much calmer, much younger, and so vulnerable like he had never allowed himself to be before.

And then, quite suddenly and without saying a word, he pulled his legs up to the couch, go on all fours to take his seat next to Phil, and, drawing his knees up to his chin, rested his head against his shoulder. The man froze for a moment, taken by surprise, instinctively tried to hug the kid and pull him closer, but quickly pulled his hand back as Wilbur flinched at the sudden movement.

Not yet. It had to be enough for now. And it was enough.

Well, maybe almost enough.

"Can I throw that sweater away now?"

Wilbur grinned, broadly and sincerely, and nodded.

"You can.


	9. Chapter 9

"Phil? How can you make someone like you?"

The man froze with a knife millimeters above the parsley.

"Well..." he muttered, trying to buy himself some time. Wilbur's intense gaze didn't help him concentrate one bit. "You have to be yourself? I think so."

The boy frowned.

"And it really works?"

"I like you, so I think it works." He shrugged, smiling slightly at the sight of the boy's expression. Almost a month had passed since he had arrived at his house, and yet he still seemed dazed every time Phil showed him affection in any more direct way. "Why do you ask?"

Wilbur shifted nervously from foot to foot.

"There's a boy." He stretched out his forearms on the kitchen counter and rested his chin on them as he watched Phil finish cutting the vegetables. "Schlatt. We sit together in class. He's really funny."

The vegetables landed in the pot with a loud splash and Phil wiped his hands on a cloth, finally getting his full attention to the boy.

"And you would like to befriend him?"

Wilbur bit his lip, and for a moment only scratched his finger across the remains of the scattered flour on the table.

"Yeah..." he nodded finally, still clearly ashamed. Phil wasn't sure if he felt uncomfortable asking for advice or just looking for colleagues, but for whatever reason - it needed to be changed.

"I still think my first advice was the best," he said in an confident tone, because he had a lot of friends in his life who were definitely not his associates and he definitely had more topics in common with them than work. Definitely. "Ah, but I can also give you some cookies so you can share with him during the break."

Wilbur took a long breath, a mischievous smile spread across his face.

"We'll buy his love," he whispered dramatically.

Phil tried hard not to laugh, because God knew that the more the boy picked up on his own twisted sense of humor, the more trouble he could get into one day. Of course, he failed completely, but could anyone really blame him?

"I wouldn't put it that way... but yes. This;s what we'll do. Do you have homework to do?" The boy nodded, his smile visibly fading. "Okay, try to get it done before dinner, then we'll watch a movie afterward. What do you think?"

Wilbur nodded a second time, this time much more enthusiastically, and immediately ran out of the kitchen. He slided more than half of the living room, stumbled, and at the last moment grabbed the stair railing, saving his nose from hitting the floor. Phil watched him go until his colorful socks shuffled on the top of the steps and the door to the room slammed. Only then did he turn and, shaking his head, set the pot down on the stove. If someone had told him three weeks ago that there was a cunning, saucy gremlin beneath a thick layer of fear and panic, he would never have believed it. Not that he was complaining. Each day when Wilbur felt the world deserved to see a bit of his true character was a day decisively worth living. He just couldn't get over how much change had happened in the boy in such a short time.

Which, of course, didn't mean a miraculous recovery and automatic removal of acquired traumas. Wilbur wasn't a robot that could wipe a disk, erase data, and put it into a new, better mode. He was a human being and, as with every human being, there were times when he felt worse. Less than two days ago he spilled the juice on the couch, and it took a good twenty minutes before Phil convinced him that nothing big had happened. There were times when he was quiet and withdrawn all day. It happened that he stared at an empty plate and only after a long time remembered that he might start eating. There were times when everything was fine until some small, inconspicuous thing touched a sensitive string in him. Sometimes Phil would know immediately why his hands were starting to tremble, his breathing quickened, his eyes getting wetery. Sometimes he didn't understand and searched for the cause blindly. Sometimes he guessed right. Sometimes not. But even when all he could offer was to be next to him, Wilbur accepted his presence with unspeakable gratitude and clung to him more and more every day.

There were still limits that they had not yet tried to cross. When Wilbur sat down next to him on the couch that evening and rested his head against his shoulder, Phil made no attempt to hug him. He also made sure that he never touched him without asking for permission beforehand, and tried to look for any disturbing signs even in seemingly normal situations. Wilbur was slowly getting used to the fact that he would not be punished for showing his emotions, even if he had chosen the most dramatic way of reacting. But he still couldn't break enough to come and ask for help himself.

That's why Phil was so damned surprised when he saw an incoming call on the display. It was almost eleven, which meant the boy was at school, potentially in class. Phil was not a big fan of giving kids cell phones, not in the age of widespread internet access and rising addiction rates. But he was even less of a fan of not being contacted in an emergency, so Wilbur eventually inherited one of his old phone calls. Which he apparently had just decided to make use of.

Phil tried to stay calm, not to jump to conclusions, and not to think about any of the thousand horrible things that could have happened to the boy, that was just flying through his mind one by one. Wilbur was at school, he was safe, nothing bad would happen to him. Everything was fine, everything was fine, everything was...

"Phil...!" He heard in the receiver as soon as he answered the call. Loud, despairing cry. Then a muffled sob.

Fuck.

Before he took care of Wilbur, Phil had never spent a particularly long time with any child. But he himself had been one of them once long enough to remember that there are different kinds of screaming. There's a scream "I can wait another five minutes", a scream "I don't want to do it myself, so come and do it for me" and a scream "Five minutes have passed, why are you not here?!". And there is also a cry of "Please, I'm scared, I need you now, now, nownownownow...!".

Wilbur definitely used the latter.

"What's happening?" He was pretty sure if there was the record for the fastest pressure spike, he just beat it. He sprang up from his armchair and before he could even think about it, he was already in the hall, just as if putting on his shoes. "Wilbur, where are you? What happened?"

He heard a loud sniff, a few quick, wheezing breaths, and only miraculously stopped himself from screaming. Screaming is the wrong way, it's a very, very bad way, but damn he needed an answer, and he needed it now!

"Can you..." Wilbur finally managed to put a few words together. "Phil, please, can you get me out of here?"

"Where are you?" He repeated, checking his pockets for car keys. Shit, why didn't he ever remember putting them back in place!?

"I'm in the bathroom. N-near... Near the gym. Phil, please, I can't... I can't calm down, Phil, I can't... I can't stop remembering. Phil, please, please come over...!" He blurted out his words faster and faster, his voice shrill, and when he finally paused to catch his breath, it sounded like he had emerged from the water only to be swept away by another wave.

"You are alone?" Phil held the phone with his shoulder as he fired the engine without spending a second to fasten seatbelts. Fuck the law! Whoever wrote it up clearly had no children! "Can you get someone? Some teacher?" In response, he got a gibberish from which he didn't understand a word, but which he chose to interpret as 'I don't think so' "Okay, okay, shhh, take it easy. That's fine. That's fine. We can do it. Focus on my voice, okay? I promise nothing bad will happen to you. Can you take a look around, Wilbur?"

Whatever happened, he had to keep the child's attention at all costs. If it was even half as bad as it sounded... He didn't even want to think about what would happen if he added an asthma attack to his panic attack.

A few tense and sobbing seconds later, he finally heard a soft:

"Yea..."

Okay. Okay, now slowly, take it easy.

"Great. List five things you see."

"Um... My shoes. And... And there're signs on the door and... and... Phil, please, can you come? Can you come now? Please, Phil, now, I can't...!

Fuk. Fuck, fuck, fuck! It doesn't work. Why is it not working? It was supposed to work!

"I'm on my way," he said, looking desperately for anything that might distract the boy from the chaos that was just going on in his head. Focus, Phil, focus, something Wilbur likes, something that calms him down... "I'm leaving on our street. I passed our neighbors house. Do you remember them? They speak Russian."

"Yea..."

"You showed me Russia on the map, remember? And their flag. It was...” He turned, practical driving onto the sidewalk. "I can't remember the colors..."

For a few seconds, he only heard silence, and he could have sworn he would lose touch with reality at any moment. And immediately after:

"White." Wilbur's voice was still weak and shaky, but at least it was. Thank you God who does not exist. "And blue and red."

"Oh yeah! Exactly! There's another country with a flag like that, right? Gosh, what was that...?"

"France?"

"France!" Phil snapped his fingers. Soon after, one of those fingers showed the driver who had the nerve to horn as Phil drove through the intersection at a red light. "Remind me where it is?"

He wasn't sure if the World Health Organization would endorse his method of fighting the panic attack as appropriate. What he was sure of was that Wilbur was actually answering him, quietly, on the exhale, between one sob and another, but he did answer, and with each subsequent question he seemed a little... well, certainly not calmer, but closer to reality. As if he had found something to hold on to and get some stability.

When less than fifteen minutes later Phil finally burst into the bathroom (he would have been faster if he knew where the goddamn gym was!), he didn't even have to call the boy to know he had hit the right place. From one of the booths there was an all-too-familiar shallow breathing, interrupted by coughing and slurping noses.

"Wilbur?" He knocked on the door, putting the phone in his pocketwith his free hand. "Hey, it's me. Can you come out please?"

For a moment he only heard the silence, and he was already calculating how much the school would charge him for breaking a thin piece of plywood pretending to be a door. But then, unexpectedly, the lock clicked, and flushed, tear-stained face appeared to him in all its glory.

In an instant, he felt all fear abandon him, replaced by compassion, concern, and an overwhelming urge to embrace the child and never let go again.

"Oh, Wilbur..."

He didn't have time to say any more. He didn't have to.

Wilbur made the most pained face he had ever seen, a face screaming "I called you and you were gone!" and without a word he threw himself into his arms. Phil, taken completely by surprise at first, immediately knelt down, letting him hug his neck tightly.

"Hey, hey. It's okay. It's all right now, kiddo. I'm here."

"I-I'm s-sorry...!" Hiccups joined the crying. "I-I... I didn't want to make a c-call, really! B-but it was... It was so loud and so much and... and I-I remembered something and..."

"Shh... Come on now. You did very well. I'm proud of you."

He could clearly feel the boy flinch and freeze for a second.

"You are...?"

"Yes. You asked for help when you needed it. You were very brave and I am very proud of you. "He could have sworn he had told him this before, that he had said it to him many, many times... but maybe not really. Maybe he just thought about it every time, because it seemed too obvious to him to say it aloud. He definitely had a lot to learn. "Can you let me go for a while? Just for a second, I promise."

Wilbur slowly and reluctantly relaxed his grip. But he still held his arms raised, clearly waiting only for the first signal that he might cuddle again. If Phil hadn't love this kid from ages, now he would have had no other choice.

As soon as he could, he took off his jacket and threw it over the boy's shoulders, pulling the hood deep up to his eyes. The school was still quiet, but Phil definitely didn't want to risk the bell catching them off halfway. The last thing Wilbur needed was the stress of hundreds of kids staring at him.

"I'll carry you, okay?" He waited for a quick nod and grabbed the boy just above his knees, straightening up, letting kid's legs wrap around his waist and arms around his neck. He glanced at the cracked mirror above the sink and, finding with satisfaction that Wilbur was completely unrecognizable with his face pressed against his shirt, stepped out into the hallway with relief.

* * *

Wilbur fell asleep in the car on the way home. Phil tried to move him inside as carefully as possible, but the boy woke up anyway, stared at him with large, still reddened eyes, and immediately embraced him as tightly as he was afraid he would disappear.

"Can you stay?"

Phil could. He could and would, so he just lay down on the bed next to the boy and spent the next two hours listening to his calm, steady breathing and running his fingers through his dark hair. After all, he also needed a little peace afterwards.

They woke up from their nap a few minutes after two p.m., both deathly hungry and very reluctant to get up and do anything about it.

"I'll order us a pizza," Phil muttered, turning to reach for his phone. He glanced at Wilbur's phone, lying next to his on the nightstand. He frowned and handed it to the boy with a raised eyebrow.

"You have a message, I think."

Wilbur seemed equally surprised, but after a few seconds of clicking the screen, a wide smile appeared on his face.

"It's Schlatt," he explained, clearly excited. "He asks if I'm alive and why I was gone."

"O. So he liked our cookies?"

The boy shrugged.

"No," he said, busy replying to the message. "He doesn't like the ones with nuts." He hesitated for a moment. "But... he likes me, I suppose? I think so?"

Phil couldn't help but tangle his hair (which was met with a dissatisfied "Oi!")

"Ha! I told you. Damn, I'm good at this. Maybe I'll change my job and start giving advice for money?"

Wilbur inhaled dramatically, making the most theatrical face possible.

"Please don't. I just got used to not being hungry."

Phil opened his mouth, closed it, and opened it again.

Oh. So it's true after all that trauma shapes a sense of humor.

God knows this boy will be the end of him one day.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry it took so long, I literally forgot, lmao.

Phil had no idea how or when another month had passed since Wilbur showed up at his house. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that between work and caring for the child, he could barely find time to sleep for a few hours and, possibly, watch a movie in which neither of the characters suddenly started singing. He made a very grave mistake in revealing the world of musicals to Wilbur and paying a high price for it. Still, it was a good month. Very good. Probably one of the best Phil remembered. And while he was tired, frustrated, and confused, he still wouldn't changed a single decision that led to it.

Even if he sometimes recalled with a certain nostalgia the times when he came home with his groceries and didn't find a tent of blankets and pillows instead of the table. Not that he could be angry about it. Not when Wilbur, balancing on the back of the couch with Schlatt, smiled so brightly and carelessly.

"The floor is lava!", he announced far too enthusiastically for someone on the verge of life and death. Soon after, he gave a big leap towards the chair, but took the wrong distance and Phil had to risk being burned alive to see if he had twisted his ankle.

They ate on the couch for the next week because Wilbur flatly refused to move his new "base" somewhere less disruptive to normal operation. Fortunately, with the first snowfall, the fun moved to the court. It made Phil not a bit calmer, especially since he had fallen twice in the icy driveway, but at least the house had regained its original decor. Not counting constantly wet hats, gloves and scarves hung over the radiators.

"You are mad at me?", Wilbur croaked between bouts of coughing. Phil immediately tore his eyes from the thermometer and looked at the boy closely. Theoretically, two doctors assured him that it was a common cold and the boy was in absolutely no danger, but the internet still said something completely different. Something about cancer, dying, and selecting tombstones, to be more specific.

"I'm not angry", he said almost involuntarily, sighing inwardly. He didn't like this question. Not because he was irritated by repeating the same thing over and over again every day (well, maybe a little, sometimes, but he'd never admit it even to himself). There was something bloody sad knowing the boy's first instinct was still to assume that he had done something wrong. That no matter how much time they spent together, Wilbur would sometimes still look at him with fear, was still afraid of the sudden movements and would freeze when Phil raised his voice, even if he was only doing it to shout over the noise in the supermarket.

"I'm not angry", he repeated a few days later when the boy woke him in the middle of the night. "Why would I be angry with you?"

Wilbur looked down at the floor, wrapping his arms around himself tighter.

"I don't know. You seemed angry. Before, when you came to say 'good night'."

Phil was absolutely sure he had acted exactly the same as he had done every night, but he had long since learned that the more he tried to explain himself, the more stressed and embarrassed Wilbur became. Without a word, he shifted and lifted the covers, making the boy room next to him.

He made a note in his head (once again) to finally contact some child therapist. He waited far longer than he should have before it finally dawned on him that love and acceptance, while undoubtedly useful, might not be enough at times. When someone breaks his leg, you don't stand over him and say that you love him unconditionally. At least not until a doctor sees him and the risk of bleeding is zero.

Predictably, Wilbur was not thrilled with the idea.

"You think I'm crazy!", he shouted as he ran up the stairs, then slammed the door to the room with such force that Phil wasn't sure how the jamb survived this burst of emotion.

He was also not sure what or if he should answer at all, so, choosing the only logical option, he didn't answer at all, patiently waiting for the boy to calmly think through the matter. Indeed, it was less than a week before Wilbur raised the subject of his own free will. Though it didn't sound like he'd come to some specific conclusions after deeper reflection - more like it bothered him at night and he really wanted to get over it.

"You really think I need this?", he asked, sluggishly nibbling on a sandwich he didn't want to eat. His fingers were buttered, though, and Phil could imagine him rubbing them on his new pants.

He hesitated for a moment, looking for a suitable way to say 'yes' without saying it.

"I think it might help you. I will not force you to do anything. And I won't be angry if you say no", he added quickly. "But it doesn't hurt to try? You'll be able to quit whenever you want, I promise."

Wilbur practically lay down on the table, pushing away the plate of battered sandwich remnants.

"I just wish I could be normal", he muttered, hiding his face in his forearm. He didn't seem angry like the last time, but rather very bitter and disappointed. Of the two baddies, Phil preferred him scream and slam the door.

"You _are_ normal," he said as he crouched down next to him. Carefully he grabbed the boy by the shoulders, urging him to sit up straight. "It's perfectly normal that you need help. Everyone needs it sometimes."

Wilbur shifted uneasily. He opened his mouth to say something, then closed it without saying a word, and for a moment just stared at his feet, rubbing one against the other.

"Can't _you_ help me?", he finally muttered.

Phil took a long breath, held his lungs for a moment, and let it out slowly, buying himself a few extra seconds. He had never felt so overwhelmed by the amount of trust he had been placed in his life. And he knew that this is definitely not the first time that it will not live up to expectations.

"I'd love to know how", he sighed, probably more disappointed with himself than the boy would ever be. But he didn't have much time to feel sorry, and certainly not in front of the child. He frowned. "Wilbur, do you trust me?" The boy blinked at the sudden seriousness, but nodded. "In that case, believe me that you have nothing to fear. Nor should you be ashamed. And there is absolutely nothing wrong with admitting that sometimes you can't cope with something and need the help of a specialist. If you break the tap - you call the plumber. If something hurts you - you go to the doctor."

The corner of Wilbur's mouth twitched slightly.

"If you break your computer - you turn it on and off."

Phil had made a promise once that he would never in his life say any of the damn sentences that all the parents of the world repeated over and over again, as if they were learning parenting from the same book. And yet his first, automatic and completely ill-considered response was:

"If only you were so smart at school..." *

The boy laughed, completely unaware of Phil's downfall and failure in life.

"I'm very smart at school!"

Phil stopped analyzing his life choices and the eternal conflict of the individual with the laws of the universe for a moment and smiled broadly.

"You're smart", he admitted, ruffling his dark hair. Wilbur blushed, clearly surprised that his joke got a completely honest and serious response. "Okay, let's do this. I won't bother you with this for now if you promise to seriously think about it, okay?"

A soft little voice in the back of his head told him that he should definitely not leave such an important decision in the hands of a nine-year-old, but for the moment he decided to ignore it. Or best to gag and lock it deep in the basement. What was he supposed to do? Force Wilbur to go to therapy? Keep pressing him until he finally gives in, probably out of fear? Bomb him with remorse?

Sometimes he wondered how mankind has been able to keep its offspring alive. Maybe some of them were more predisposed to it than others. Perhaps he himself belonged to the latter group.

Wilbur, unsurprisingly, didn't bring up the topic for the next few weeks, but Phil didn't have the heart to remind him of it just before Christmas. Serious conversations didn't quite fit with gluing paper chains, decorating the Christmas tree and baking gingerbread.

Waking up at six in the morning on Christmas Day, on the other hand, did not quite fit the idea of rest, but apparently it didn't apply to those under the age of ten.

"Phil!" Wilbur pounded on the bedroom door. "Phil, there are gifts under the tree!"

The man pulled the covers over his head, quietly hoping that if he pretended that something didn't exist, it would really be gone.

"Yeah", he purred as the door was put to the test a second time. "That's good. They'll be there in two hours too, you know?"

He rolled over as he heard the boy run down the stairs. He was under no illusion that he would actually get enough sleep, but he counted on at least a short nap. In less than two minutes, my bare feet tapped the steps a second time, and this time the door swung open, letting a blinding light from the corridor enter the room.

"Phil." Wilbur jumped onto the bed and tugged at his arm. "Phil, some are _for me_."

He sounded and looked so excited and surprised at the same time that the man instantly forgot his fatigue. Ultimately, coffee was created for such occasions.

"Of course they are. I would be very surprised if they were for someone else."

They spent the morning in pajamas, Phil sipping coffee, Wilbur sipping hot chocolate. One of the classic Christmas movies that everyone knew by heart was on TV, but none of them paid much attention to the plot. Just like to the colorful paper scattered on the floor. Wilbur opened each gift with equal excitement, and each time seemed amazed that the box did not turn out to be empty.

"And can I really keep it all?"

Phil didn't ask why it had occurred to him at all that he would have to hand over his own gifts. Instead, he put three large exclamation marks next to the mental note 'THERAPY'.

"I'll call him 'Friend'." Wilbur's voice snapped him out of his thoughts. The boy had a large blue sheep in his lap, and he kissed it over and over on its plush face when he was convinced that no one was watching.

Phil just couldn't help smiling at the sight.

"That's a nice name."

He reached out to pretend it was scratching the stuffed animal behind the ear, then reached a little higher, ruffling Wilbur's hair.

"Hey!" The boy laughed, avoiding the touch. Unfortunately, he was sitting in the very corner of the couch, with nowhere to escape the massive tickle attack. "Phiiil, nooo...!"

Phil chose not to take prisoners.

* "If only you were so smart at school ..."  
I wrote this scene and only when I started to translate it and did a reaserch did I discover that APPARENTLY only Polish parents say that? And I'm too lazy to change that, so you get this footnote, lol.  
Generally, "Żebyś ty taki mądry w szkole był!" is something parents say when you dismiss all their arguments. Longer version of "Don't you talk back to me!". 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's just a short fluff today, but I promise that next one will be longer.

It was mid-February before Wilbur decided that therapy might indeed be a good idea. Or at least harmless.

"Puffy is cool," he said after returning from the first session. He was visibly excited and followed Phil step by step around the house, constantly making sure he had his full attention. "She wasn't screaming, not even once. And she said I'm not crazy at all. And that it's okay that sometimes I feel sad for no reason." He frowned. "Are you sad sometimes, Phil?"

"I think so. Yes, sometimes."

"Oh. You can tell me then, you know?" He reached out and squeezed Phil's hand, copying his own gesture. "I won't be angry. I promise."

The man pursed his lips, trying not to laugh and ruin the sublime atmosphere.

"Okay. Thank you, I will remember", he assured, and then grew serious. "I am very proud of you."

Wilbur blinked, staring at him with large, wide eyes.

"Why?"

"Well... You thought about what I told you, and you made the wise decision yourself. That's very mature."

"Oh." He paused for a moment. "You're weird sometimes, Phil."

"You think so?"

"Yes. Really, really weird. But you say nice things then, so it's fine. "

Phil made a note in his head to be "weird" as often as possible. Especially since Wilbur, though sometimes he had a stupid ideas like every child, behaved perfectly fine most of the time. He did well in school, none of the teachers ever complained about him, and the more he got used to and got out of his shell, the more it became obvious that he was by nature a bright and goddamn talkative kid.

"I'm just saying it doesn't really matter." Phil shrugged the same evening as he set the oven to the right temperature. "No difference."

Wilbur glared at him over the bowl from which he was just finishing eating the leftover dough. It was hard to judge what was more stained with chocolate - his face or hands.

"It makes a huge difference."

"They're exactly the same colors."

"Yes, but in _different way!_ "

Phil rolled his eyes. One would think that ten-year-olds have more interesting activities than telling adults that maybe they actually mistook the flags of Poland and Monaco...

"No difference," he repeated, because when arguments are over, it's always best to be stubborn and just pretend. He scooped all the dirty spoons, bowls, and cups down the sink and stared at them for a few seconds, silently hoping they would start to wash off by themselves. They didn't. Damn surprising.

"It's very rude." Wilbur, licking the remnants of chocolate off his fingers, leaned over the table to hand him the bowl. His expression showed an absolute unwillingness to offer help with the cleaning. "How would you feel if someone from Monaco mistake your flag, Phil?"

"I would be devastated at how much I don't care about it" he said firmly, as befits someone who, five minutes ago, didn't even know there was a country like Monaco, said firmly. "You know when I will care? When you mess my walls with those dirty hands. Now, wash them!"

He backed away from the sink, shaking the water from his hands towards the boy, who immediately dodged with a screech.

"You're angry because you offended two countries and now you feel stupid!", he laughed and was immediately hit with water again. "Flagophobe!"

"There is no such thing." 

"Now it is! You're the first in the world. Are you proud of yourself?"

"Like hell. But speaking of achievements. What about our... _your_ project for that class?"

Wilbur stopped smiling immediately.

"Yeah... I'll have to do it again."

Phil gasped with shock. And a little scare, because God knows that he cursed over this damn model more than in his whole life. You think there is nothing easier than a model of the solar system, then sit for hours brushing styrofoam forms with a small brush, only to find out that Pluto is no longer a planet for some reason.

" _Again_?! But why? It was a good project!"

"Too good. The teacher said there's no chance that I made it myself."

"You made it yourself!" He was indignant, but immediately remembered that in the final version all the planets were shining and rotating on their axis. And Saturn was playing the Imperial March. For aesthetic reasons. "Well, almost. You helped."

Wilbur nodded eagerly.

"I was eating cookies and handing out a screwdriver."

"Exactly. You created an atmosphere conducive to work. A very responsible position. But did you confess?"

Wilbur looked at him with surprise.

"To what?" he asked with such an innocent face that if Phil still hadn't dreamed about colored wires, he probably would have believed him himself. "I didn't do anything wrong. I'm just smarter than the other kids. It's not my fault."

Phil probably shouldn't be laughing. Or at least not that loud.

"It's not even a lie!"

Wilbur grinned broadly. No matter how often Phil did it, he continued to receive compliments with equal delight. As if he had only recently unlocked this option and was still surprised at the possibilities it offers.

Phil promised himself to show him all of them.


	12. Chapter 12

A heat wave hit at the beginning of the summer vacation and Wilbur started to disappear from the house for day, only to appear to eat dinner on the run or to fall on the bed in the evening and immediately fall asleep from exhaustion.

"I've never had so many friends!" He got excited when Phil was packing him cookies so he could share with other boys. "Actually, I never had friends at all... You think I was doing something wrong?" He shrugged, not waiting for Phil to come up with a sensible answer. "Doesn't matter now. Can you leave me some for the way?"

"I thought you were gonna go by bike."

"I can ride and eat at the same time."

Phil, who had taught him to ride a few weeks before, tried with a heavy sigh to remember where he had left the first aid kit. He sincerely hoped it would end up with bruised knees, not broken teeth.

Sometimes he missed lazy afternoons on the couch and watching movies together or losing at cards on purpose. He lived alone for several years, but the house never seemed to him as empty and quiet as it is now. Not that he was trying to keep the boy at home, not in such good weather and not when he was practically swallowing the fries whole, because "There's no time, everyone's waiting!". Phil was an adult, he knew how to organize his time. And if Wilbur needed anything in large amount, it was definitely fresh air and peer contact.

And a goddamn inhaler.

Which Phil found abandoned and completely forgotten on the hall cupboard.

At first, almost instinctively, he pulled out his phone to call and partly make sure the boy was still alive, partly murder him for giving him a heart attack. Only the realization that Wilbur would have sensed his anger immediately held him back. The last thing they both needed was a panic attack somewhere far from home. Besides, the boy was not alone. Schlatt may not have been Phil's favorite, but Dream or Sapnap had the brain cell (one to share) to call for help with any problems. The fact that the phone was silent was therefore a good sign. Frustrating but good.

He couldn't concentrate on his work. He stared at the blinking cursor for a good ten minutes before realizing that and angrily closed the blank document. He needed something to do, anything, but no matter how firmly he told it to himself, all his thoughts immediately ran in a completely different direction. What should he do? What would a good, reasonable parent do? Probably the opposite of what he usually does. He didn't want to appear overprotective, Wilbur should feel that he trusted him and would not control him at every turn. On the other hand, trust has been put to a serious test today and the boy should be aware of that.

He really wished there was anyone else with similar problems who he could ask for advice.

He wished there was anyone he could ask for advice, with or without problems.

It was almost four pm and Phil was brushing the dust in the living room for the fourth time just to do something with his hands, when the front door finally opened and Wilbur burst in with a gleeful "I'm home!".

Phil was absolutely sure that if any coach saw him at that moment, he would be put on the spot as the national for the hundred meters. By the time the door closed behind the boy with a soft click of a lock, the man was there, kneeling down and examining the child from top to bottom. And back, just to be sure.

Wilbur's hair was wet, pushed back carelessly from his forehead, his damp shirt was sticky to his body, and his shoes left muddy marks on the floor, although it hadn't been raining for a good two weeks and the ground around had dried to a chip. In the whole area, except the shores of the lake.

Phil didn't have to ask where they were or what they were doing. He didn't have to and did not intend to, because although he didn't mind them sitting by the water in hot weather, he categorically forbade the child to even think about swimming without any supervision. He didn't know which would be worse: if Wilbur had confirmed that he had knowingly disobey and not even tried to hide it, or if he had been clumsily and brazenly tried to lie.

Water dripped slowly from Wilbur's hair, and Phil felt his anger building up with every drop. Now that he had the boy in front of him, knowing that he was fine, all his fear instantly flew away, freeing his frustration and fatigue.

"Couch," he said over his shoulder, turning to take his place on it himself.

Wilbur, clearly getting ready to tell a long story about everything he was doing today, stopped smiling, but followed him obediently .

"Can I change first?" he asked, but immediately fell silent as Phil picked up the inhaler.

"Wilbur, what is this?"

The boy looked as if he wanted to begin a theatrical search of his pockets. Some color drained from his face.

"Oh..."

"Yhm. Exactly. What is the most important thing I always ask for?"

Wilbur bit his lip.

"To always carry an inhaler with me" he replied and, in accordance with "he who excuses himself accuses himself" - he immediately began to excuses. "But I was fine! I'm _fine_ , really!"

Phil silenced him with one sharp look.

"And that's what you are supposed to wear it for, to make sure it won't change. What was the second thing I asked for today?"

This time the answer was not so quick. Not because the boy didn't know, Phil could tell from his expression that he knew exactly what was going on, and is just trying to come up with any excuses.

"To not go into the water when no adult is around.", he said finally. And then, as predicted: "But I was only at the shore! And _everyone_ was swimming! It's so hot...!"

With the last remnants of his willpower, Phil suppressed the question of friends jumping off the bridge. He still had remnants of dignity. What cann't be said about nerves.

"I have no doubt you were hot," he said dryly. "And what was the third thing I asked for? _Please_ remind me", he encouraged in a tone that clearly indicated that the word "please" was there only for decoration.

Wilbur grimaced, not so willing to dig his own grave, but apparently he had understood by now that Phil was not going to let go, because in the end he just hung his head.

"To not run like wild because I would get hot", he muttered, suddenly very interested in his socks. Completely soaked and leaving obvious marks on the floor, which was not in his favor. "But I wasn't running...! Just a little. Others ran _more_."

Phil was on the tip of his tongue how deeply he respected what "others" did. The "others" wouldn't have to live with the thought that their child had drowned in a goddamn lake. Or suffocated during an asthma attack. Or choked on dirty water and got pneumonia. The "others" didn't have to think about all of these things. They had no nightmares about it.

"Wilbur." Still, he tried to keep his nerves under control, because he knew what he was about to say was more of the brutal truth. There was no need to make it even more difficult to accept. He wanted to be strict, not cruel. "I know you want to keep up with others, and I know you probably had fun and didn't think about it. But you are ill. You have chronic disease and your asthma is not taking time off just because you are on vacation. I'm sorry to say that, but you are not like the other kids, Wilbur. Not on that one point." The boy opened his mouth, probably to protest, but Phil silenced him with a single gesture. "I didn't finish. That was one thing. Now the second." He put a hand on the boy's shoulder, waiting patiently for him to meet his eyes. "If I see or hear or find out in any other way that you've stepped into the lake, if only ankle-high, without any supervision, you won't leave the house until fall or longer. And I don't care if you know how to swim. Do something that stupid one more time and you'll spend the rest of the summer in your room. And at least I'll be sure you're safe."

He had rarely spoken to Wilbur that way; usually, he simply had no reasons for it, and he believed much more in the effectiveness of rewards than punishments (especially in the case of a child whose entire upbringing was based solely on the latter). But for all his weakness for the boy, however, he was absolutely sure that if necessary, he would not hesitate a second to fulfill the threat. Not when it came to the vision of divers fishing the body of his child from the bottom of the lake.

"Do you understand?", he made sure, while the boy was just staring at him with wide eyes.

Wilbur nodded immediately, as if afraid that every second he delay would get him into even more trouble.

"Are you angry?" was the first he asked about. Because of course he asked about it.

And Phil, probably for the first time, confirmed.

"I'm angry."

The room fell silent, heavy and tense. The remnants of color drained from Wilbur's face, his eyes, wide in mute shock, glazed over, and his lips pressed into a narrow line.

"Oh..." he blurted out, quiet and tearful, and Phil immediately felt his heart begin to soften. Though, thank God, not enough to dim his mind and take back everything he just said.

"Wilbur." He tried to take boy's hand, but he just flinched and quickly stepped back beyond his reach. Phil had to use all his willpower to pretend it didn't hurt him at all. "Listen. I'm damn mad because I asked you for something and you didn't obey. And I'm really disappointed because I was sure that you are much more responsible and you know that if I forbid you something, it's always for some reason.

The boy hung his head, nervously rubbing one foot against the other.

"I know. I'm sorry. But don't be angry..."

He looked at the child more closely, trying to judge if he really understood fully. He wanted to make him think and temper him a bit, but not scare him to death. For the vast majority of the time, Wilbur was well-behaved to the point of exaggeration, and Phil took that into account.

"I'm just worried about you. If something happens to you… ”He broke off, feeling that the honest ending of this sentence was unlikely to be suitable for a child's ears, unless he wanted to traumatize him again. "I have no idea what I'm going to do then, I guess I'll go crazy with fear." I'm trying to make sure you live to your next birthday, please don't make it difficult for me."

Wilbur glanced at him as if he were trying to judge whether the tension between them was actually losing a little.

"Only to next birthday?"

Phil couldn't help smiling.

"Maybe a little longer," he admitted, and with a heavy sigh, he opened his arms wide. "Come here."

Wilbur didn't have to be told twice.

"You're not angry anymore?", he asked, his face pressed against Phil's shoulder. His hair was still wet, as was his shirt, which meant both of them would be wet in a few seconds. Not that any of them noticed it. Not enough to break the hug because of it.

The easiest way would be to just let it go and told him everything is okay. The easiest and definitely the worst when it comes to the overall message. Sooner or later a similar situation would happen again and Wilbur would only be more confused. People got angry with each other. The parents got mad at the kids and the kids got mad at the parents, and there was nothing surprising or abnormal about it. Anger was an emotion the same as joy or sadness, and the sooner Wilbur learned to express it in a healthy way, the better. The sooner he finds out that someone might be angry with him and not want to hurt him or abandon him, or hate him for it for the rest of his life, the greater the chance that he will eventually stop being afraid.

Phil hugged him a little tighter.

"I am angry. And I probably will be for a little longer", he clarified, and feeling the boy's muscles tense again, he immediately added, "But that doesn't mean I've stopped loving you."

He felt more than heard the baby hold his breath for a moment, and it was only then that he realized that this was perhaps the first time he had described his feelings so openly. Not because he'd only just realized it now - it had just never occurred to him that he should. He was sure he was saying it all the time. Maybe not directly, maybe not with words, but with every gesture, every look, every moment he spent with the child. He was absolutely sure of it, because when he looked at Wilbur, when he spoke to him, when he was just close to him... he loved him. He loved that boy so much that it was impossible for him not to see it. It was impossible that such a strong feeling could be hidden, especially when you're not trying to do it.

Wilbur couldn't have missed it.

But he might not understand. He might not be able to recognize it or name it because he had obviously never felt loved by anyone before. Apparently no one had even tried to love him before.

Sometimes Phil felt disappointed at what an idiot he was.

He slowly pulled the boy away from himself, still keeping his hands on his shoulders lest he think she was trying to push him away.

"You know that, don't you, Wilbur?"

Wilbur's lips twitched. He wasn't looking at him, his eyes fixed on his own hands, clutching the edge of his T-shirt.

"You're weird again", he finally replied, his voice vibrating in his throat as it always did when he felt like crying.

Phil carefully brushed his wet hair from his forehead, breathing in relief as the boy leaned for the touch. He bend so that he could catch his gaze and look deep into his eyes.

"You know I would never lie to you, right?" He wasn't sure if it was still a question or just a promise. Maybe he never said that either. Maybe he thought it too obvious.

Wilbur nodded.

"Mhm..." He muttered, then sniffed, once, twice, on the third, his eyes glazed over, and his trembling hands gripped the man tightly as he snuggled into him a second time.

Phil returned the hug without hesitation.

"You okay?" He made sure, stroking the boy on the back.

Wilbur pressed his face tighter against his shoulder. Phil couldn't tell if his shirt was getting damp from tears or if the water was still dripping from his hair.

"I don't know. I guess I'm happy. But... But I'm also so sad. Because I... I wanted to hear it so much and for so long, but never...” He paused for a moment, clearly searching for the right words, and when he failed to find them, he clung to the man with even greater desperation. As if he were his only protection. "Phil, I don't know... I don't know anymore..."

"Shhh... It's okay. Everything is fine. You can cry if you want. It's not a bad thing."

This time it was the boy who moved first, and Phil was surprised to find that although his face was red and teary, his eyes suddenly focused.

"You won't send me away, are you?" He asked, and for some reason it sounded completely different than usual. There was no uncertainty and mistrust and no ill-concealed hope in it, only a firm demand for confirmation.

Phil wasn't going to say no to him.

"I won't."

"And you promised to never leave me."

"Never."

Wilbur frowned.

"If you lie, I will hate you forever."

Phil nodded just as seriously.

"I'll hate myself a hundred times more", he assured, and the boy's gaze instantly softened, his muscles relaxed and he suddenly seemed small and vulnerable again.

And Phil realized with full force that he had just been given a trust that he probably would never deserve.

And that he was willing to spend his whole life proving to Wilbur that he made the right choice.

He really wasn't good at expressing emotions in words. Nor in doing anything with them other than keeping them for himself and for his own use. There were probably a thousand and a few more things he could say now. Hundreds of those he wanted to say in his heart. And a few that he should actually say.

But for some reason he ignored them all and, ruffling the boy's hair, simply said:

"Go take a bath."

Wilbur looked at him in surprise.

"I'm already wet", he observed, because, unlike some of them, he wasn't a complete moron.

Not that Phil was going to accept it. He was an adult, he was always right.

"This lake is a breeding ground for all plague. I don't even want to think how many bacteria you brought us here."

Wilbur didn't look the least bit convinced, but since walking in wet socks is never particularly pleasant, he just shrugged and ran up the stairs.

"Can I play on the computer afterwards?", he shouted, leaning over the railing.

Phil shook his head.

"No. I'm still angry."

He smirked at the dramatic moan from above. This was his life now. Lots of whining, worrying to death and emotional roller coaster.

He already felt that he might not survive it.

He couldn't imagine a better death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay! One kid in, two to go! Techno's Arc begins in the next chapter!


	13. Chapter 13

August was lazy. Wilbur still spent most of his time running like a wild in the sun, cheating at cards in the evenings and stealing money from the bank while playing Monipoly. Phil was pretty sure he was raising a future tax fraudster, but at the moment he didn't worry about it. It was Future Phil's problem. Current Phil had much more serious worries.

"We have a kid here," Nate informed him as soon as he heard the reply to his 'Good morning'.

Even though their colleagueship didn't start off well, it has improved significantly over the past year, moving on from "Can I speak to your manager?" into a slightly less formal camaraderie. Phil might still have the worst possible opinion of the system as such, but blaming individual employees for it was simply pointless. Especially since Nate turned out to be quite a nice man. He was overworked, far under earning, and spending most of the day buried up to his ears in really hopeless cases, but he really cared for all the kids he had in care. As much as it is possible to care for over twenty strange children, most of whom are seen once in their lifetime for ten minutes.

Phil frowned, stepping back from the computer and tilting his head back in the chair.

"I'd be surprised if you didn't. Happy but very surprised."

"He's a boy, about Wilbur's age."

Phil nodded, though no one could see it.

"Yhm..."

There was a long sigh in the receiver.

"Phil. You know what I'm trying to say."

"I know", he admitted, glancing at the door to make sure it was locked. He was ninety-nine percent sure he would have heard if Wilbur returned from... wherever he ran this time, but just in case he lowered his voice anyway. "Look, Nate, not that I don't want to help because I'd really like to, but... It's kind of a bad time for me to take another kid."

He could clearly imagine what face Nate had just made. He might try to remain indifferent to his charges (which is understandable and probably even healthy in his profession), but he could never well hide the fact that he had a weakness for Wilbur. In fact, when he spoke again, there was some concern in his voice.

"Something happens? Something about Wilbur?"

"Apart from the fact that he started to be fascinated with documents about animals, he's fine." He paused for a moment, glanced nervously at the door once more and, gathering himself together, added, "I'm going to adopt him."

He had never said it out loud before. He thought about it, carefully weighed the pros and cons (somehow he couldn't find the latter), he even made sure three times that he certainly qualified as a potential adoptive parent, but had not yet summoned the courage to ask anyone about it directly. Neither the officials responsible for the entire procedure, let alone Wilbur.

He wasn't sure why he hesitated so much. He was absolutely convinced that it was the best decision he could make, probably one of the best he had made in his entire life - and yet he still couldn't get down to business. Perhaps it was because he never really planned to adopt. He doesn't like formalities, and he definitely didn't need a pile of papers to be sure of his feelings. He loved Wilbur and considered him his son regardless of whether he officially gave him his last name and was listed somewhere in the office as "father" and not "guardian". If, without some funny piece of paper, the boy couldn't see how much he cared about him, he must've screwed up the job and should try harder.

Only recently has he realized that his opinion may not be the most important thing in all of this.

Wilbur was a child, lonely, dumped from one house to another, and mostly treated as a necessary evil, whether it was by a system that he had unconsciously lowered the stats to or by families who had broken his trust. "Funny paper" was much more for him than just a formal repetition of what was already obvious. It was a summary of Phil's endeavors, a confirmation that what he had said and done so far was sincere that he really cares and is ready to do absolutely anything to prove it. It was a proof of his trustworthiness.

It was "I love you" shouted out so loud that Wilbur would hear its echo for the rest of his life.

Phil might have found the adoption to be a completely redundant formality, definitely more labor-intensive than it should be. But if she was going to make his child happy, he was willing to go through the entire procedure every day for the rest of his life.

Nate was silent for a good three seconds, and Phil was able to pinpoint exactly where he'd finally assimilated the information he had received.

"Oh. Oh! Great! Fantastic! God, you don't even know how it makes me happy. I couldn't believe I would see the day this boy got out of the system!"

"He kept breaking your stats?" Phil couldn't help but be a little spiteful. He liked Nate, he really did, but he still remembered the jumble of nerves and fear that had crossed the threshold of his house. It still haunted him in his worst nightmares.

If Nate was offended, he didn't show it.

"He kept breaking my heart. Really, Phil. That's great news. This boy is already running after you like a duckling after his mother, when you tell him I think..." He broke off in mid-sentence, becoming serious immediately. " Wait. How does adopting him stop you from fostering Techno?"

Oh that's great. Now he knew the boy's name. Now he was no longer a nameless child in the system. Damn it...

He straightened up in his chair, mostly to be able to reach the desk.

"How do you imagine it, Nate?", he asked, tapping his fingers on the tabletop. "I'm supposed to take a child under my roof who needs a family and have him watch someone else get it?"

Nate purred understandingly. Phil didn't believe for a second that he was going to let go.

"Phil. You say exactly what you should be saying to reassure me that I can entrust this boy only to you."

Ah, yes. Exactly.

"Nate, you say exactly what you should be saying to manipulate me into this. That's why I'll hang up now."

"Wait! Could you at least try to consider it? I will be grateful. Techno is... a special case."

Phil froze with his finger a millimeter from the screen, then slowly raised the phone back to his ear.

"Isn't that what you said about Wilbur?"

Not that he actually needed confirmation. He still remembered that conversation to the word. "Difficult", "attentive", "requiring constant supervision"... Well, at least the latter actually had its raison. Leave Wilbur alone for a few hours and you can call the fire department and an ambulance right away. And anti-terrorists.

"Yes. That's why I immediately thought of you."

Phil rubbed the bridge of his nose with his fingers, feeling a pained groan build up deep in his throat. Or a scream. Or laughing at his own stupidity - he himself wasn't sure anymore. He didn't even know why he felt so bloody torn and frustrated. His mind told him that he had every right to say "no", that he had all possible logical arguments on his side, that he never even mentioned a word that he was willing to foster another child. The heart, on the other hand... Well. His heart still remembered Wilbur's fearful gaze, the bruises on his arms, and that fucking yellow sweater. He knew he couldn't save the whole world. That one alone won't save every hurt child. But if he could help one more... did he really have a moral right to refuse?

He sighed heavily, rubbing his eyes.

"Go on."

"I can send you his file." Nate instantly get more energetic, and there was a quick tapping in the background. Motherfucker was already prepared. "Just please, don't be scared. When I say this is a special kid, I really mean it. He's ten, almost eleven. Devilishly smart, but he doesn't do well in school. At this point, he seems to have stopped trying. It's a bit our fault, one of his previous families turned out to be... very improper.

Phil preferred not to ask what exactly that meant. None of Wilbur's families have ever been reported as even minimally suspicious. What did Techno 'parents' have to do to earn this award? Sell his kidneys? Try to sacrifice him to Satan?

"Why can't you find him a home?" He asked instead, because even though he had some experience cleaning up the mess of his predecessors, he definitely preferred not to be taken completely by surprise a second time.

"He's... a difficult child."

He rolled his eyes.

"Specific, Nate, please."

This time the sigh was definitely longer, and it clearly served only to delay the inevitable. Oho, this's gonna be good...

"He can be aggressive... They say so! No proof!"

Phil pushed the phone away from his ear and stared at it with such disbelief that he was almost certain that the digital record of his expression had somehow magically reached the caller.

"What the fuck, Nate? I have a child at home who is oversensitive about this", he explained, trying very hard to remain calm. Keyword: trying. "I won't take another one just to let them traumatize each other"

"No, no, no, listen to me! He... You should meet him first, Phil. He's a really good boy. Honestly, he's a lot like Wilbur. He just shows emotions in a slightly different way. Please. Think about this."

Everything about Phil was screaming "No!" Very loud, very firm, and very, very pointless because Nate was a goddamn bastard and he knew exactly what he was doing and what words to use to move the very tender string. He knew, he fucking knew how to make a conversation stop being purely theoretical, stop being about some random, nameless kid that Phil might forget in a while and sleep well again at night. Now the conversation was about Techno. It was about a terrified little boy whom Phil thoughtlessly and automatically took the same affection he had for Wilbur.

Damn you, Nate. Phil'll have to remember to block his number before he makes a goddamn orphanage out of his house.

"How hard would it be to find another home for him?" He asked with one last, desperate wave of hope, but he was not particularly surprised to hear only a short 'Very hard'. "Okay. Send me these files. I'm not saying yes!" He pointed out in advance, naively lying to himself. "But I'll think about it. I need to talk to Wilbur first anyway. If he doesn't agree, there's no topic at all." Deep down he knew perfectly well that he could start arranging the second bedroom. Someday, all this goddamn empathy is going to put him in his grave. But at least he will die with a clear conscience. That's something, right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, yeah, it's gonna be slow.  
> But I don't know if anyone expected anything else, I just wrote 24,000 words about Wilbur, lmao.


	14. Chapter 14

As it turned out, Techno was in fact an special child. Unfortunately, in a way that absolutely no one ever wants to be "special".

He was three years old when he was found on the church steps, where he spend all November night waiting for his parents, who had promised to come back "in a few minutes" and had apparently forgotten. He knew his own name and was able to tip his fingers at how old he was, but he couldn't remember either the surename or the address, and his description of his family sounded like every person that everyone passes by on the street every day.

As usual in such a situation, at first the case was widely echoed, the media got interested in it, searches began, and someone from Reddit certainly broke into the secret base, stole documents and analyzed the shape of contacts or models of vacuum cleaners. Unfortunately, even with the help of the latter, the puzzle couldn't be solved - Techno's parents were never tracked down, and they never came back for the child. People gradually lost interest, and a little over a year later, no one remembered the boy who had just been officially entered into the system, with a new, top-down surname and no background whatsoever. And no future, apparently, too, because the more Phil analyzed his file, the more he suspected someone was deliberately trying to destroy the child's life.

His first foster home sounded like an absolute nightmare. Not least because simply gathering nine children between the ages of four and twelve in one place made Phil think of hell. He knew how much time and effort he had spent to help Wilbur, to tame him, to teach him to show affection and trust in people anew. He was absolutely convinced that doing it with more than three at once was just physically impossible. It was impossible to stretch time, and even the best parent had to sleep, eat and breathe in peace and quiet from time to time. He didn't accuse anyone of deliberate neglect - he accused the system of thoughtlessness and pure idiocy, and was not at all surprised that, according to the report, after a year of notoriously being ignored, Techno not only failed to overcome the acquired trauma, but even regressed. Only then did someone finally come up with the revolutionary idea that it might probably be better to move him to a less crowded place.

Two pages of the report later, Phil concluded that in principle they might not have been doing this.

Techno never complained about the way he was treated. Partly out of fear, part of the conviction that his words would not change anything anyway. But mostly because he was bloody five years old. He probably didn't even know he could say anything, and all the adults around him had obviously suffered a sudden bout of blindness. Another year passed before someone finally decided that the bruises were a bit too much after all, that the boy was falling down the stairs a little too often, and was a bit too scared of any physical contact. Nobody was charged with anything, nobody was proven anything - but at least Techno was taken from there. Little successes need to be celebrated. Supposedly.

His house number three... Phil wasn't sure what happened in house number three. There was practically no information about him, except for a few notes that the boy's condition had improved significantly, he seemed happy and strongly connected with his new family. Especially the latter sounded extremely painful, coupled with the information that the next year later, the 7-year-old Techno arrived at home number four.

The file didn't say why this had happened. Nate wrote in pencil in the margins, "They said it just didn't work," and Phil could understand it somehow. Sometimes a combination of two things just doesn't work, even if they both work perfectly well. The toaster and the bathtub are fine by themselves, but when put together... they are unlikely to provide a pleasant experience. Some people just don't fit together, and Phil knew it. And he was really trying to understand and not feel mad at strangers about something that might have been a difficult decision for them as well. But he couldn't help that deep down he had already labeled both sides torturer and victim. He just knew something bad had to happen, he knew, because house number four was the first house to complain about the boy's behavior, and he had only spent two weeks there. According to the report, he attacked one of his adoptive sisters. Phil was deeply convinced that if he had spent more than half his life passed from hand to hand like an object, he would also start throwing anything at peoples. And screaming and kicking and biting, because apparently only then anyone ever paid attention to the child.

Home number five... existed. And that in itself was proof that God does not exist.

Phil was sure that gradually uncovering Wilbur's past was a shocking experience - as it turned out, reading about it in the form of a dry, unemotional report was a hundred times worse.

Techno has gone through hell. It was impossible to put into other words. He had completed all nine of its circles and got out solely because one of the older boys in the family had fallen into drug trafficking and apparently, recognizing that there was nothing left to lose, decided to take everyone with hmself. Apparently drugs could save someone's life rather than destroy it. Surprising.

The report was several pages long, and Phil was unable to get through it at once. Instead he went downstairs to the living room, where Wilbur was watching 'Finding Nemo' for perhaps the fourth time this week. Hearing footsteps on the stairs, the boy turned, clearly excited about the company, but his smile immediately faded when he saw the man's face.

"Something happened?", he asked as man sat on the couch next to him, but Phil just shook his head.

"I just have to think about a few things."

"Oh." Wilbur nervously turned the remote in his hands. "Should I leave?"

Phil shook his head a second time and, without any introduction or explanation, leaned in, holding the boy tightly against him.

A year ago, Wilbur wouldn't have understood his intentions. A year ago, he would have been scared, confused, and would have automatically assumed he had done something wrong because he didn't know any other safe reaction. Now, although visibly surprised, he just hugged him back. Phil considered it his success in life.

"It's just... I'm glad to have you, you know?", he whispered, resting his cheek on dark mop of hair. "And that you came to me then."

He might not be the perfect father. There was hardly a week without him making some stupid mistake that he later blamed himself for. Not to mention, most of the time he really had no idea what he was doing. Wilbur deserved the best, deserved the father that Phil had tried but still couldn't be.

But he could love this boy more than anything else in the world, he could make him feel safe with him, make him forget for a while what had happened to him, and just enjoy being a child.

He believed he could offer the same Techno.

Techno deserved to be safe. He deserved the past to slowly fade away from and lose control of him. He deserved to be loved. To be able to be a child. Phil couldn't help but give him this chance.

He slowly pulled Wilbur away from him and, keeping his hands on his shoulders, looked him straight in the eyes.

"I have to ask you about something. It's very important and I want you to answer completely honestly, okay?"

The boy nodded.

"I did something bad?"

"Absolutely not", he reassured him, belatedly realizing that he had actually made the whole introduction a little too sublime than necessary. "You did nothing wrong. I just want to know what you think about something, okay? Okay. So Nate... You remember Nate, right? Of course you do. So Nate called me yesterday and wanted to know if maybe... maybe I wouldn't take another baby. To foster, I mean.

At first Wilbur just nodded again. Then he opened his eyes wide and looked at Phil with a fear the man hadn't seen in a long time.

"Instead of me?!"

Phil was pretty sure he looked equally, if not even more terrified. In any case, it was only a miracle that he avoided a heart attack.

"No! No no no! Of course not!"

Fuck, and that's why he should have adopted him when he still had the chance! Damn it... How and when 'Do you want to be officially my son?' suddenly turned into 'Would you like a new brother?'

"You're not going anywhere! No way."

The boy's shoulders relaxed visibly, and his gaze softened.

"Oh. Okay. Good." He breathed a sigh of relief, then puffed up his cheeks and looked at Phil resentfully. "Don't scare me like that."

"I'm sorry, i didn't want to."

Wilbur scowled at him, but shrugged after a short consideration.

"Fine. I forgive you", he said, and Phil struggled to hold back a laugh. "So there will be another child?"

The man hesitated. On the one hand, he was ready to go after Techno even at this point, and had a strong feeling that with every word and gesture, he shows this need. On the other hand, he really didn't want to put any pressure on Wilbur. He wanted an honest answer, unaffected by the fear that otherwise he would be angry with him.

"Would you like it to be?", he asked finally, making it sound as neutral as possible.

The boy shrugged.

"That's okay. I think so."

Phil breathed a sigh of relief. Wilbur may not seem particularly thrilled, but he didn't say no - that's the most important thing.

"His name is Techno. He's a few months older than you."

"Have you met him yet?"

"Not yet. I wanted to know first what you think about it."

Wilbur blinked.

"Why?"

"Because it's a family decision, and you are part of it."

"Oh." He bowed his head and his hair fell over his face, but Phil could still see that he was smiling. Sometimes it struck him how little it took to make him happy. There was something downright sad about it. "I think the big brother would be nice", he decided. He was clearly trying to hide his nervousness, but his voice was trembling slightly and his fingers brushed the hem of his shirt, so Phil wasn't surprised when he added, "But... but you won't like him more than me?"

Oh. Oh, of course.

He took the boy by the chin and gently urged him to look at him.

"No", he said seriously. "I don't play 'favorites'."

Wilbur looked away.

"And what about the 'least favorite'?"

Phil almost laughed. Not because he thought the question was stupid. He just couldn't imagine loving someone more than he loved Wilbur. There were limits to human ability.

"Definitely not."

The boy looked at him closely, obviously looking for something. Whatever it was, he must found it because after a while he grinned broadly.

"Fine then."

Phil smiled back, feeling the enormous weight fall from his heart.

"All right", he agreed, ruffling the baby's hair.

He couldn't say he wasn't disappointed in a way. He was already attached to the idea that soon Wilbur would be his son also formally. He wanted to see his expression when he asked him, wanted to know that the boy finally understood how much he meant to him.

Well, apparently they both will have to wait a little longer. It's not that anything could change about it if he didn't make a decision now nd immediately. They had time. They had a lot of time.

Enough to fit Techno too.


	15. Chapter 15

If Phil were to decide only for himself, Techno would be standing on the doorstep of his house with a suitcase the same day. But Wilbur's comfort was also at stake, so although he was overwhelmed by the excitement and the need for action, he decided to postpone the decision a bit so that the boy could prepare for the upcoming changes in peace. His first encounter with Techno was therefore at an adoption facility on the most neutral ground possible. Neutral to Phil, anyway. He was deeply convinced that the boy would have a completely different opinion. He didn't seem particularly enthusiastic as he sat at a table in an empty room whose door Nate closed behind Phil with a soft "Good luck!"

Well, that was exactly what he might need.

"Hey, kiddo." He sat down at the table, deliberately sliding the chair a little further than necessary. The table top was quite narrow, and he had reason to suspect that the boy might not be a big fan of pushing the boundaries of his personal zone at the moment.

The way Techno eyed him, watchful and damned distrustful, only confirmed it.

"Good morning", he muttered, sliding a little lower in his chair.

Phil's first thought, when he was finally able to get a close and calm look at him, was, literally: oh. "Oh" combining surprise and sympathy, and referring to a disheveled, waist-length bundle of hair, the strands of which the boy wrapped around his fingers. Dyed hair, should be added. Or at least that was the original idea, but the workmanship left a lot to be desired and as a result some of the strands, especially on the top of the head, still had a natural brown shade, while the rest were dazzling with neon pink.

Interesting choice. Phil wasn't judging. He was too busy figuring out when he could make an appointment with a good hairdresser the fastest. Pink, green - if the kid wants, they can be even rainbow colored. But someone has to do it well.

Aside from the hairdressing nightmare, Techno looked much better than Phil expected. Certainly less tragic than Wilbur used to be, which was a very low bar, but still - it could have been worse. His face was pale, there were strong shadows under his eyes, and a scar ran through his cheek and across the corner of mouth, but he looked quite healthy as well. Too skinny and evidently unkempt, but at least in clean clothes and no bruises. Not in any visible place, at least. Phil had no doubt that if he had started to drill down on the subject, there would certainly be something. Nobody wears long sleeves in thirty-degree heat for no good reason.

For his own good, he temporarily decided not to think about it.

"You're Techno, right?"

And okay, maybe it wasn't a particularly wise question, but the look the boy gave him made him suddenly feel like he was back in school, under the blackboard where he had just written the answer very far from correct.

"Unless you have meetings with half of the orphanage today, it's probably not a difficult puzzle, sir."

He had a strange feeling he should be offended. Instead, he could hardly suppress a laugh.

"Ah. That's true. And really, let's leave that 'sir' thing, okay?"

Techno grimaced, straightening his chair sharply, probably to appear taller.

"I won't call you ' _dad'_ ", he practically spat the last word, pressing his arms to his sides and lifting his chin, clearly preparing for a longer fight.

Phil gave him a few seconds to control himself before nodding.

"I wasn't going to ask for it", he answered calmly, and if somewhere deep, very deep in his soul, he felt a bit of regret, he immediately choked that spark. "Just 'Phil' will be okay?"

Techno looked at him closely, searching for a trick.

"I think so." He shrugged, starting to twist the strands of hair around his fingers again. It seemed to calm him down a little. "Why are you here?"

Contrary to Wilbur, who tried to merge with the wall and most willingly to cease to exist at the first meeting, Techno masked fear by pretending to be indifferent and confident. Phil knew he definitely shouldn't put one defense over the other, not when both were unhealthy and in the long run couldn't fix anything, but for two bad things he preferred a saucy kid to the one flinching at the mere sound of his voice.

"Well..." he thought for a moment, not really sure what he should say. ' _I wanted to make sure my son would be safe with you_ ' sounded like a very, very poor start to a relationship. "Because I wanted to meet you a bit before..."

"You read my file."

Phil hesitated. On the one hand, he was tempted to deny it, because knowing that someone had traced your entire life, especially the most traumatic moments, was not supposed to be pleasant. Rather, it gave minus a million to comfort and blocked any increase in confidence for a very long time.

On the other hand... he didn't want to lie. Certainly not so obviously.

"Yes, I read..." he agreed, but before he could add anything else, Techno slapped his hand on the tabletop with such force that the table swayed.

"I'm _not_ aggressive!", he growled, then he must have realized that he was contradicting himself because he crossed his arms and slumped harder in his chair. At the moment, he was more lying on top of him than sitting. "Not without a good reason."

Phil was absolutely sure that this outburst should have disturbed him, and in some way - it did. The thing is, at the same time he just believed him. His words, his face, his whole posture clearly showed the pain, regret and frustration at the way he had been treated so far, how much he was hurt by the people he should be safe with, and the system that should protect him had failed. How for years he was thrown from one nightmare house to another, only to be told at the end that he had provoked it himself. That he is the cause of the problems. That he even deserved it.

It wasn't particularly wise to put instincts, gut feelings, and guesses over facts. But Phil knew, _he just knew_ Techno wasn't a bad kid. He was like a trapped pet that would growl, bite, and scratch if you get too close. Not because he actually wants to hurt you, not because he has any real purpose or intention for that - he's just scared and suffering.

Techno was scared. And Phil could only assume that under all his anger and regret, he was suffering.

That's why he forced himself to remain calm and slowly nodded.

"I'm so glad to hear that. That's great news."

Techno frowned. He clearly expected a completely different reaction and didn't have a ready answer. Phil decided to use it to change the subject.

"My son has prepared a list of questions that I must ask you. Wait..."

He reached into his pocket to pull out a piece of paper written in neat, even handwriting. Whether it was a school essay or a grocery list, Wilbur was always more calligrapher than writing. Phil once made the mistake of jokingly asking why he was so focused on it.

"Once at school they said I had a terrible writing." He heard in response. “And then at home they got mad and it was... very bad."

Strange as it may be, it always hurt the most when Wilbur's past showed up in these tiny, inconspicuous elements. He could heal the worst wounds, but there was nothing he could do about the scars left by them. He hated feeling so fucking helpless.

Techno watched his every move, straightening rapidly as Phil's hand faded from sight for a second and hesitated for a long moment before taking the piece of paper from him. The silence in the room was not particularly comfortable, but neither of them expected anything else.

The boy scanned the first few lines.

"Why does he want to know if I like fish?"

Phil sighed heavily. He should have read these questions himself first...

"He's trying to convince me to let him have a pet. He probably wants you to join him in battle against logic and iron argument."

Techno still didn't seem to see any sense in his reasoning.

"What does it matter what I think?"

"It's between a fish and a hamster, so if you don't want to be woken up in the middle of the night by a spinning wheel: you like fish. Very much."

The boy wrinkled his nose, but made no attempt to pursue the subject.

"You're weird", he only muttered, looking from the man to the piece of paper and back again. "And turtles are cooler anyway."

Phil smiled broadly. First information! First real contact!

"Really?"

Techno pursed his lips, clearly wishing he had said anything. Then he brought the paper almost to his nose, squinting. When he uncovered his face after a few seconds, his expression was absolutely incredulous.

"'Are you a communist?'..."

Phil stopped smiling.

"Okay, you know what, no, I... can I get it back?" He asked, but without trying to reach for the paper himself. He wasn't an idiot.

Techno more tossed than handed him the paper. Phil paid little attention to this, preoccupied with promising himself that he would not allow Wilbur to watch the documentaries in the end.

"Favorite color?" he asked in the hope that he would still be able to save the situation. Banal questions could be boring, but they were also the safest. At least he thought so.

Techno seemed to have a different opinion, as he pressed his back a little harder against the back of the chair, his eyes averted.

"I like pink", he grunted and immediately looked at the man almost defiantly, as if demanding some kind of reaction.

'Come on, say something', his eyes seemed to scream. 'Comment it somehow. I know you want to.'

Phil didn't want to. He neither wanted nor intended, so he just smiled, nodding his head.

"Like your hair?"

Techno wrinkled his nose.

"My previous... 'brother'..." he grimaced, clearly refraining from using another, probably much less neutral term "He poured something into my shampoo. Because it's 'girl's color' or something."

A. So much for the "safe question". Well done Phil. As always, you're doing great.

"Oh. It's…" He hesitated, pondering, trying to choose which problem to raise first. He very much disliked the fact that one of his first thoughts was literally, 'Oh, thank God, he didn't do this to himself! Hope is he will let to fix it!'. "This is a really damn stupid joke. And the last time I checked, the colors were just colors. If you want, I can look for a hairdresser and..."

"Whatever", Techno cut in on him, suddenly appearing annoyed for some reason. "It'll probably come off by itself eventually."

Phil analyzed his words one more time, but still had no idea what exactly might have made him angry. Maybe he was just imaginating...?

"This is important if you feel bad about it", he reassured, and realized immediately that no, he definitely did not "imagine".

Techno was angry. All his posture, the way he crossed his arms and clenched his fists, how he looked away and bit his lip...

"I hit him", he blurted out suddenly.

Phil blinked in complete surprise.

"What?"

"My... He wasn't my 'brother', I won't call him that... I hit him. That's why they sent me away", he added, looking Phil straight in the eye for the first time. "The last ones."

If Phil hadn't had time to dig through the internet and libraries by collecting information about the different forms of PTSD and the ways in which children tried to relieve violence, he would probably be very concerned at this point. Not that he wasn't, in the end he had just heard something to say the least alarming and he was taking it really seriously. At the same time, however, the overwhelmingly greater part of his fears stemmed rather from the fact that he finally understood.

A few months after the yellow sweater finally disappeared from the wardrobe, Phil had an really bad day. Mainly at work, where absolutely all of his associates decided to be extremely incompetent just to put extra duties on him, but also because he was sleeping in a bad position and his neck hurt. And his head. By the way, he was old, and maybe it's time to think about booking a place in a retirement home... He wouldn't say he was irritated. Rather very, very tired and wishing this whole damn day would be over.

Wilbur apparently had a different opinion.

Phil wasn't sure how he hadn't noticed before that something was wrong. No, wait. He knew 'how'. He was just ashamed to admit that he had practically ignored the boy all day, preoccupied with self-pity. And then suddenly it was evening and he was standing by the stove frying scrambled eggs while Wilbur watched him closely from the opposite end of the kitchen, his favorite cup in his hands. His hands were trembling, and Phil could already see the tea spilled on the floor, and he was even starting to whine about it in his head. And in a way, he was right. Except Wilbur didn't spill anything.

Wilbur literally threw the cup on the floor, breaking it into tiny pieces.

Phil remembered feeling almost deafened by the thud and the sound of breaking glass. He remembered standing still for a long time, burning scrambled eggs somewhere to his left, remembered that spilled tea had reached Wilbur's white socks, dyeing them pink. And he remembered his son's face, his flushed face, his lips tight and his hands clenched into fists.

And then the world went back to normal, as if someone had snapped their fingers and turned the time back on. Phil cursed under his breath and, quite automatically, rushed to save dinner. When he put the pan down and looked at the baby again, there was no sign of anger on his face. Instead he seemed scared, staring wide-eyed at the glass on the floor, gasping for air in quick, shallow breaths. Then he turned and ran out of the kitchen, leaving Phil alone with glass to collect, tea to dry, and thoughts to organize.

"I'm sorry", was the first thing Wilbur said when Phil entered his room a few minutes later. He was sitting on the bed, his arms wrapped around his legs, forehead resting on knees. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to, I'm sorry..."

Phil sat down next to him, making sure to keep a safe distance. Sometimes, during a panic attack, the boy needed physical contact in bulk amounts. On the other days, when he was overwhelmed by something, the last thing he needed was extra sensory irritation. Phil has learned not to make assumptions and to wait patiently for a sign of what he needs at this particular moment.

"What happened?"

Wilbur sniffed loudly.

"You were angry", he sobbed, gripping the fabric of his pants tighter.

At first, Phil wanted to deny it. He scolded himself for it right after that, because hell, why would he lie? Wilbur might have been a kid, but that's no reason to treat him like an idiot. He could sense emotions five times better than most adults. Telling him he's wrong would be like waving a black board in front of him and telling him it's white.

"I was angry", he admitted carefully. "But not with you. I had a bad day, that's all. Did I do something that made you feel bad?"

The boy shook his head. Phil stifled the urge to try to touch him.

"You didnt. But... Because I just... I don't know. It's just…” He took a deep, shuddering breath and, wiping his wet cheeks, he lifted his head. "Phil. I know you wouldn't do anything to me, really, I know, but you were angry for so long and I started to think about it and then I couldn't stop and I wanted... I wanted to get it over with. I just wanted you to get angry and... _do something_ and be normal again."

He didn't remember much about the rest of the evening. Just hushed voices and a long conversation, and the moment Wilbur climbed onto his lap and cuddled up to him, seeking comfort. He remembered running his fingers through his dark hair and trying not to feel hurt by what he had just heard, trying to remember that it wasn't all about him.

And if he cried that night, Wilbur would never know.

He never wanted to feel anything like this again, such overwhelming powerlessness. Apparently he wasn't given it, because when he looked at Techno, he saw in him the same desperation that made Wilbur lose his favorite cup.

Techno believed Phil was going to hurt him, was absolutely convinced of it and willing to do anything to get confirmation. No words could change that, not immediately and not without a huge amount of effort and work.

Phil was ready to try.

"Well..." He exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand across his neck. "Okay, in general, I do not support violence, in any form and for any reason... but he really had it coming."

The International Association of Sensible Parents would probably not have given him the prize of the year for this statement, but somehow he didn't know how to care. His children should know they have the right to defend themselves. Violence may not be the "right answer" - but sometimes you don't want to answer at all. Sometimes you just wanted the questioner to shut his fucking mouth.

It's hard to judge if Techno had a similar opinion on this. His shoulders relaxed a little and his expression became indifferent, but his gaze was still sharp and piercing. For a long moment he just rocked on the back legs of the chair (Phil was holding back a long lecture on the effects of the impact of the skull on the floor) before finally deciding that the visitor was worth a little attention after all.

"So you have a son?" He nodded at the paper of questions in the corner of the table.

Phil immediately grinned, completely reflexive and without any thought.

"Oh, yes!" He reached into his pocket, somewhere on the edge of his consciousness noting that this time Techno hadn't flinched or tense. Not as much as before, anyway. "Wait a second..."

He ignored Wilbur's message, asking if he remembered about his super important questions, and entered the gallery. Somehow, he has already managed to collect more pictures of his child than some people have pictures of funny cats. In one of them, taken a week ago, the boy had horribly disheveled hair, a crookedly buttoned shirt, and a broad smile. The honor of capturing this view fell on the school photographer - Phil just copied it from the class album. He already had a very well-rounded plan to torment his son with it for the next twenty years. Start now.

"His name is Wilbur." He put the phone on the counter. "He's about your age."

Techno hesitantly reached for his cell phone, frowning at the photo.

"How much is 'about'?"

"You're exactly seven months and three days older."

The boy grimaced as he put the phone on the table a little more brutally than was necessary.

"I don't like little brothers", he grunted, and from the way he said it, Phil might have bet blindly that he didn't like older brothers either. Neither sisters. Not anyone in general.

"I think you will get used to it. Do you like geography?"

"Not really. I don't like school."

"Okay. What do you like then?"

Techno shifted uneasily in his chair. The conversation was clearly not going in the direction he had anticipated, and he was starting to feel insecure with no pre-prepared answers.

"I don't know? To have a peace of mind." He shrugged, and when Phil laughed sincerely, he looked at him as if he were an extremely bizarre specimen in the zoo. "You're really damn weird."

Phil laughed even louder. He was beginning to believe that destiny was giving him hidden signs in this way. If the child considered him weird, he should take them home immediately.

"Why?"

"You're asking strange questions."

"Sorry, I don't have much experience. What do people usually ask?"

"I don't know. 'How long are you already here?', 'Why are you here so long?', 'Why won't you smile?, 'Why are you so mean?'..."

Phil's smile faded a little.

"I can list a few reasons for being rude to someone who asks why you don't smile", he admitted, because he himself might not have been a good example of 'How to properly have a first interview', but he didn't think people could be that stupid.

Techno slumped lower in his chair, winding a strand of hair around his fingers.

"Weirdo", he muttered, softly enough that it wasn't entirely clear if anyone but himself was going to hear it.

"You'll get used to it."

The boy's hand froze for a split second, then he jerked his head up to look directly at the man. He was clearly surprised, and without all the artificial confidence he suddenly seemed much younger and almost helpless. Even his voice was different, quieter, higher and definitely not indifferent.

"You still want to take me?", he asked, and he must have regretted it immediately, making a face as if he wanted to bite off his tongue. He crossed his arms over his chest, looking away, but his cheeks were flushed. "Whatever you want. I don't care."

Phil didn't fall for it.

"Of course I want to. That's why I'm here", he said seriously, but before he could add anything else, someone knocked on the other door and they both instinctively turned their heads towards the sound. "Oh. I think Nate is slowly losing patience with us.” He grimaced, genuinely disappointed. He didn't want to leave Techno, even though he knew the breakup was only temporary. Okay, he might have known him only half an hour, but it was a very nice thirty minutes. Contact is made, bond is made, last chance to change your mind is lost. "He was supposed to prepare a whole pile of documents for me to complete." He sighed dramatically as he put the phone in his pocket, but hesitated before doing the same with Wilbur's note. He scanned the carefully drawn letters once more and finally pushed it back towards the boy. "You know... Can you write 'No' next to this 'communist' thing...?"

He was pretty sure the corners of Techno's mouth twitched slightly in a contained smile.

"Your son is weird too", he muttered, but reached for a pen.

Phil couldn't disagree with him.

"Just wait until he starts telling you about anteaters..."


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the comments, guys, I really love them! ❤️
> 
> Also, my sister @alwerakoo just published a fic, so If you like a good Post-exile stories, or Tommy & Techno - centric fics (or just a good stories in general, lol) you should check on this one.  
> It's really fucking great and she deserves more attention.  
> archiveofourown.org/works/29733213/chapters/73129290

The first thing Phil saw when he opened the door was Wilbur, standing beside his bed, in the pale light streaming in from the hallway through the ajar door. If he had been a bit more woke, he would probably have paid for the sight with a heart attack, but since his consciousness was still drifting somewhere between wakefulness and sleep, he only blinked, trying to adjust his eyes to the darkness faster.

"Hm? What happened?"

The boy shifted nervously from foot to foot, pulling the sleeves of his pajamas so much that it nearly rolled off his shoulders.

"I just..." His voice was trembling, and the words ran down his throat with obvious difficulty. "'Couse I..." He tried a second time, but stopped again for a few seconds, until finally took a lot of breath, closed his eyes and blurted out in one exhalation: "I can't stop thinking that you want to replace me."

Phil immediately lost the desire to sleep. For a few days forward.

"Oh." He sat up on the bed, his arms wide open, into which the boy immediately cuddled up. Phil didn't even want to ask how long he had stood barefoot in the corridor before he finally decided to come to him: his feet were icy cold. "Oh, Wilbur..."

The boy made a high-pitched noise, something between a screech

and a sigh.

"I know..."

"I would never replace you", he assured, stroking the boy on the back. He could feel his muscles tense, hands clenched around his shirt tremble strongly and could almost hear the quick, too fast pounding of his heart.

"I know. Really. But I can't... stop being afraid."

Phil's hand froze for a moment before resuming slow up and down journey. He never knew what to say at times like this. From the very beginning, he naively assumed that if he could finally convince the child once and for all that he was safe, wanted and loved, everything would automatically change for the better. It may not be perfect, but it will be easier, because if only Wilbur would believe him once, if only he would finally trust him - what reasons would he have to continue to be afraid?

Well, Wilbur had reasons. He had all sorts of goddamn reasons, and Phil felt like a moron for trying to deny his right to doubt and fear. Even if he didn't say it aloud, even though he believed that he had never expressed it in any direct way, it was still a burden on his conscience. He tried, really. He tried to listen and not make assumptions and not expect too much. Take things as they were. He loved his son and wanted to help him in every way possible, and most of all - not to harm him even more. But sometimes... he just didn't understand. He didn't understand why sometimes he had to say something a few times, why Wilbur said he knew, and then acted as if he had never heard of it.

He remembered asking directly about it once.

"I can't explain. It's like…” Wilbur hesitated, searched for the right words for a moment, then shook his head. "I don't know. As if someone was standing next to me telling me all I know is not true and I was just making it up. Like, you tell me you love me and I _know_ it's true, but then... suddenly this voice says it's a lie and says it over and over and over _and over and_... And sometimes I finally start to believe."

Phil nodded, though it still sounded very abstract. But he could understand the general problem. Sometimes he was absolutely sure he had turned off the iron before he left the house, but he had to turn the car around, come back and check it anyway. Or he had to make sure five times that he closed the door properly. He couldn't imagine feeling this way all the time and with much more serious matters.

Therefore, although he didn't understand, he didn't try to comment. He just held his boy tightly in his arms and patiently repeated once again:

"I promise nothing will change."

Wilbur took a deep breath, relaxing a bit.

"And you're not tired of me?"

"Absolutely not. Why would I?"

"I don't know. Sometimes I am annoying."

Phil pushed him slightly so that he could meet his eyes.

"I would be happy if you'd finally stopped to collect dirty cups in the room, slowly because I do not have what to drink coffee", he admitted smiling. "But other than that, you're definitely not annoying."

Wilbur bit his lip.

"What if you like him more than you like me?" This question clearly troubled him the most. Most of the major changes in his life were not good for him, no wonder he wasn't a huge fan of them.

"I won't."

"What if he doesn't like me?"

Ah. Yeah.

Phil couldn't say he wasn't afraid of the question. He was getting ready for that and was basically surprised it hadn't rained sooner - but he still didn't feel a bit ready. Still, he tried to sound confident as he put his hands on the boy's shoulders, waiting for him to meet his eyes.

"Wilbur. I'm going to tell you something very important now and I want you to remember it, okay? First of all: I am asking you to give him a chance. You don't have to be the best of friends, but I will expect a minimum of cooperation and goodwill from you. It can be difficult at first. And it probably will. Techno... had a really bad life. Just like you."

Wilbur frowned, but after a moment understanding appeared on his face.

"Oh..."

"Yhm. I'm just asking you to try, okay?"

The boy nodded slowly.

"Okay."

"Great. Thank you. This is the first thing. The second..."

He hesitates. Not because he didn't know what he was trying to say. He was just still not sure if he should say it. Wilbur might have been smart, but he was still just a child. He had stupid ideas, was irresponsible, and sometimes broke the rules just because he didn't realize why they were so important.

But, on the other hand, he never lied. He might have "forgotten" to mention a bad grade or swear he had cleaned the room, although the dust on the shelves was enought to make a snowman, but he never lied about anything really important. Phil trusted him more than anyone else, more than any adult person. And maybe a lot of people would find it thoughtless and risky and call it "tempting fate" - but he felt Wilbur should know.

He tightened his grip on the boy's shoulders.

"Wilbur, listen. If anything goes wrong, you have to tell me. If you're scared, or if Techno does something bad, or... or hurts you in any way - I need to know about it. This is not 'snitching'", he pointed out quickly, seeing that the boy didn't seem convinced at all. "There's absolutely nothing wrong with saying that something bad happening, remember. I want to help Techno, but not If you get hurt by this. And, Wilbur…” He paused for a moment, this time just to make sure the boy was listening. "Whatever you say, I'll believe you. Even if it sounds fucking unbelievable, even if Techno behaves perfectly around me and even if everyone, including me, will likes him. No matter what, if you say something is going on, I'll believe you. So it's very, very important that you tell the truth. I trust you, and I know you would never intentionally get someone into trouble. I don't want to change my mind on this. Do you understand me?"

Wilbur understood. Phil saw it in his gaze, in the way he clenched his hands on the sleeves of his pajamas, and even in the way he opened his mouth and then closed it to reflect once more on exactly what he had just heard."

"I promise I won't lie", he finally said, looking very serious.

And Phil immediately, without much thought, held him close.

"I know you won't."

He really knew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: Why is this story so fucking long?!  
> Also me: Ah, yes. The trauma. The trauma of Wilbur. The trauma chosen especially for Wilbur. Wilbur's trauma. That trauma.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M NOT FUCKING FINE I WANS THE CHILD BACK NOW!
> 
> This chapter was edited by @SylviaoftheDepths and she did amazing job!
> 
> Also, please go and read my sister's fic. It's so good and she really deserves more attention. Yesterday she listened for literally an hour to how much I hate one of Dream SMP's most beloved character, so I owe her a bit.  
> archiveofourown.org/works/29733213/chapters/73129290

It took Phil much longer than he would have liked to complete the necessary paperwork and arrange it, but four days, a million signatures and even more certificates later, he was finally given the green light to take the child from the center. Wilbur, increasingly excited about the new family member, insisted on going with him, but Phil managed to convince him that it wouldn't be the best idea. He didn't want Techno to feel trapped or forced to interact, locked with strangers in a small space where he had absolutely no way of hiding or escaping. Besides, what he didn't admit and tried to disprove, was that he was afraid Techno might not want to make a good first impression.

Their last meeting left Phil with the strong conviction that while their experiences were disturbingly similar, the boys had adopted two very different methods of coping. While Wilbur continued to cut himself off from reality at times and had moments when the smallest thing completely upset and overwhelmed him, Techno had clearly declared war on the world. Phil was seriously concerned that they might accidentally fall victim tohis declaration sometime soon. And while he himself was ready to patiently wait out even the worst attacks, fear for his son prevented him from sleeping peacefully.

For now, however, he tried not to assume the worst, and clung to his naively optimistic belief that everything would be fine. If not "good" then at least "decent". "Passable", as a last resort. "Harmless", maybe...

Nate appeared at the door of the building, leading Techno who was behind him, and Phil immediately pushed any negative thoughts as far away as possible, bringing a wide smile to his face.

"Hello again, kiddo", he held out his hand in greeting, but wasn't particularly surprised when Techno just scowled at him, clearly not planning to shake it. He didn't really have a way, in both hands clutching the handle of a far too large, shabby suitcase, which bumped against his hip with every step. His hair was disheveled, and his face was red and sweaty, which may have been largely due to the fact that he was wearing a long-sleeved sweatshirt and jeans despite the terrible heat. Phil moved quickly to open the trunk, but made no effort to help pack the stuff inside. Wilbur once mentioned that he really didn't like when someone else handled his stuff for him .

"It was all I had, Phil," he told him in the garden, too busy splashing water on everything but the flowerbeds, to see a shadow of sadness cross the man's face at the mere mention of an almost empty bag. "All my stuff! And they took them and I never knew when I would get them back! And one time they took half my things because they said they were 'not good enough'. And they kicked me out a week later and I had nothing to wear!"

Phil would love to believe that these were isolated cases and Techno had never experienced anything like this, but somehow he couldn't feel an inkling of trust for people who, according to the file, broke three of a child's ribs, an arm, and at least two fingers over two years. He would sooner believe that they planned to put him in that suitcase and throw in the middle of the lake.

So he didn't try to help with the luggage. It was hard to judge whether Techno scored it a plus or the opposite, his thoughts seemed to be very, very far away. He shrugged as Nate wished him luck, but as he grasped the door handle and realized there was no one in the car except Phil, his face immediately tensed.

"You're alone?"

"Yup. Wilbur stayed home."

 _Because I asked him for it_ , he added in his head. Very, very softly so that the boy doesn't hear by accident.

He had to have shown it on his face though, because Techno frowned.

"How do I know you didn't kill him and bury him in the basement? And now you came for me?"

Phil wasn't quite sure it was a joke. In fact, he was almost convinced that it wasn't. But he was also stressed and tense, and any opportunity to relax a little was worth its weight in gold, so he just laughed.

"Sometimes I feel like it, not gonna lie. But more often, I'd rather be the one buried alive. The silence six feet under must be wonderful!"

Techno didn't answer, but finally opened the door and slowly slipped into the front seat. Phil gladly noted that he was wearing his seat belt without being reminded, and started the engine before the boy could change his mind. Although, judging by the expression with which he watched the road, he was still seriously calculating whether an attempt to escape was worth the possible injury.

Phil stealthily blocked the door, just in case.

"So! How are you feeling?" He tried to sound enthusiastic, but his voice trembled slightly, as did his hands clutching the steering wheel. Goddamn, why was he so stressed? The last time he was so nervous in college, when he waited for the results of the exam, for which he came unlearned, sleepy and drunk. He passed, by the way.

Techno didn't answer. Phil wasn't surprised, because if someone spoke to him like that, he'd rather keep his mouth shut so he wouldn't accidentally say something very malicious.

And yet, for some reason, despite this knowledge, he carried on.

"I know you must be nervous," he blurt the first thing he could think of. "If it cheers you up, I'm probably more stressed than this."

The boy finally looked at him, but somehow it was hard to say that it was a success when he looked like he wished the car would roll over.

"Somehow I doubt it."

Phil doubted it too. He should have taken Wilbur with him. It wouldn't have changed much, and they would probably still be sitting in this awkward silence, but at least he would feel like he had some support.

"Yeah, you're probably right," he admitted. Man must be able to come to terms with failure. "I'm just trying to... loosen the atmosphere. I'm not really good at this."

Techno snorted loudly.

"You're not good at all."

Okay, with all this forced positivity he likely overdid it. Wilbur would probably have said the same thing. Apparently, all ten-year-old boys just liked to kick you while you're down.

"You think you can help a little?" He tried in desperation, but Techno immediately turned his head, almost pressing his nose against the glass. Phil sighed heavily. "Okay. No preasure", he muttered under his breath, more to himself than Techno. _Little steps, little steps_...

He turned up the radio, tapping the steering wheel to the beat, hoping Techno would pick up the tune as well, but he seemed completely absorbed in his thoughts. His hands rested stiffly in lap, one of which twitched in a nervous tic. With each passing second he pressed more and more of his face against the glass, until finally, as the beads of sweat on his forehead flickered in the sun, Phil realized that he was probably trying to cool down in this way.

He turned the air conditioning up, but knew it would be a long while before it kicked in.

"Are you not hot?"

Techno closed his eyes, pressing his flushed cheek harder against the glass.

"No."

Phil frowned. Usually he let Wilbur stick to his point, make stupid decisions and suffer the consequences, but he made a very clear line when something threatened his health. He was going to do the same with Techno as well.

"Kiddo, no offense, but you look like you're a second from being cooked alive."

"And?"

"And maybe you'd rather take off your sweatshirt and survive?"

He was fully prepared for objection. He even expected it, watching the child press his lips together and pin his shoulders together in a pose shouting "But I want it and it will be as I say!" That's why it surprised him when a moment later, Techno's expression turned into a mocking smile. He straightened up and looked Phil straight in the eye, with the loudest silent challenge he had ever seen, pulling down his sweatshirt in two fluid movements.

The thick cloth rested in his lap, crumpled carelessly, but Phil didn't pay any attention to it, too busy staring at what it had covered so far.

Techno's hands, from wrists to shoulders, and probably higher up the edge of the T-shirt, were scarred. Some of them were old, some disturbingly fresh, and here and there small circular marks overlapped each other. In other places it was possible to count each one individually. Some were pink, less visible, others much deeper, and all of them seemed to burn Phil's skin with a phantom pain that he couldn't even imagine.

He knew they existed. He remembered a whole paragraph in his file on the subject, which he had to read in installments, in three tries, because he was unable to deal with the boundless, overwhelming fury that grew within him with each sentence. But knowing was different than seeing. The dry text might have made him understand that he would never - absolutely never - let anyone even mention cigarettes in front of the boy, but it hadn't prepared Phil for any of the feelings that flooded him in that split second. Not for anger, not for regret, not even for the sympathy, none of which he could transform into positive reaction.

Techno shifted uneasily, covering his shoulders with his hands.

"Are you done staring or are you planning to kill us?" He growled, and Phil immediately shifted his gaze to the road, realizing that for a few seconds he had indeed forgotten he was driving. _Fuck_.

"Ah! Sorry!"

"It's fine" The boy just rolled his eyes, but the way he pushed his back a little deeper into the seat made it clear that no, it wasn't "fine" at all. "I don't really care about surviving."

Phil didn't answer right away. His fingers tightened on the steering wheel, trying to pour all his anger into their grip to contain himself enough to at least appear calm.

"Sorry," he repeated finally, when he was sure he could control his own voice. "I don't know... I don't know what to say."

He wasn't sure if Techno sensed the desperation in his voice, or if he was irritated by the words themselves and the inept attempt to comfort him. Maybe he took sympathy for pity, or maybe he was just putting him through some kind of test again. Either way, he smirked.

"The last family said they were 'disgusting'. You can start with that."

 _Fuck it._ Fuck being calm.

Phil, not quite consciously, swung to the side of the road, braking so hard that the screech of the tires momentarily drowned out the radio.

"They did _what_?!," he shouted, but quickly fell silent, seeing the horror with which the child looked at him.

 _He thinks you want to hurt him_ , he realized. _He thinks you're mad at him_.

Damn it. How did he still make such stupid mistakes?

He tried to remember what the file said about House Number Six, but nothing in particular stuck in his mind. A couple with two of their own children, good opinion among the neighbors, didn't report any major problems until they sent the boy away, claiming that he was too aggressive.

Phil wanted to be fucking aggressive towards them too.

"Techno..." He tried again, this time much calmer. In his own opinion, at least, because the boy still looked like he was about to jump out of his skin. "Fuck. I know it doesn't matter and it doesn't change a shit, but I'm really, really sorry. They had no right... Nobody had a right to do anything like that. Or to tell you such things. It's cruel and inappropriate and I just hope you know it."

He remembered the night he saw, _really saw_ , the bruises on Wilbur's handsf for the first time. He remembered how helpless he had felt, and how much he wanted to think of anything that would make the boy feel better, that showed that he would understand how much harm had been done to him and tell him that it was not his fault. He wanted to say, _to do_ anything to make him feel safe for the first time. To give him a little warmth.

When he stared at the Techno scars, he didn't think about comforting him. He didn't think about warming him. He wanted to start a fire and burn the world to ashes. It wasn't a good feeling, it wasn't anything that a guardian should feel, anything that _a father_ should feel. It was his own regret and pain, his own memories and all the emotions he thought he had worked through long ago, but instead had pushed aside.

Phil didn't believe in Karma. But he believed that if he had the opportunity, he would personally bring it to anyone who dared harm his child.

Techno must have felt how tense the atmosphere had gotten as he pulled away, practically sideways pressing against the door.

"Okay, take it easy. And why the hell are you getting so emotional about it?" He snorted, trying to pretend to be confident, but his hand tightened on the doorknob. Only this gesture forced Phil to close his eyes for a moment and take a deep, calming breath. And one more. And another one.

"Because it's important that you hear it and remember it," he replied, leaning his head against the headrest. He glanced at the boy, partially expecting him to look away, but the boy looked him straight in the eye.

"I don't care what they say," he muttered in a way that told Phil he meant 'I keep their words in my head and in my heart, etched forever'.

"Okay. That's good", he nodded regardless , restarting the engine and pulling down onto the road. "You shouldn't."


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was edited by @SylviaoftheDepths and she, once again, did amazing job!
> 
> I am once again recommending you this fic (and yes, I'll keep doing this. lol).   
> archiveofourown.org/works/29733213/chapters/73129290

The anger slowly flew out of him, gradually turning into frustration, leaving a bitter taste of disappointment behind. In people, the system, but also himself, because with every second that passed, he felt more and more clearly that he had made a mistake. He shouldn't allow himself to show his anger, not yet, not when he knew perfectly well that whatever the situation, Techno would expect to fall victim to it. It took a good eight months for Wilbur to stop being afraid every time someone around him seemed a little irritated. Eight months - not two meetings and half an hour of conversation.

He remembered one day in mid-June breaking several traffic rules by rushing headlong to the address his son had sobbed on his phone between "Phil, please come over, now, please" and "You'll be angry, but please come..." As it turned out, Wilbur and Schlatt somehow managed not only to hurl their ball into someone's garden, but also to come up with the brilliant idea of climbing up onto the fence to try and get it back, fall off that same fence, destroy two flowerbeds and break a glass pot. Phil understood that this might be a cause for anger. He understood that the owner of the supposedly damn valuable flowers and a collection of pots demanded compensation. But he definitely didn't understand yelling at two kids and making the whole situation a spectacle that half of the bored neighborhood turned to watching. Phil showed up just in time to see the woman grab the terrified Wilbur by the arm, and at the last moment stopped Schlatt from lunging at her throat. Not that he really didn't want to see it. He simply suspected that the escalation of violence would only worsen his child's condition.

"It was really, really weird," Wilbur muttered an hour later as Phil finally parked in their driveway. He had red eyes and puffy cheeks, but had calmed down a bit as he waited in the car for both sides to finish their testimony, as one of the onlookers decided the case was no longer funny and called the police. Phil didn't feel guilty. His throat was a little sore and his head was still buzzing with the screams, but he was also filled with deep satisfaction.

He switched off the engine but didn't move, staring at Wilbur in the rearview mirror.

"Did I scare you?"

The boy shook his head.

"No... Not really. I mean..." He focused on the loose thread on the sleeve of the T-shirt, which he wound around his finger to find something to do with his hands. "You were terrifying," he confessed, and Phil felt instantly guilty. "Really terrifying. But I wasn't scared at all because I knew you weren't mad at me. And then…” He hesitated, tilting his head a little lower. "When you came and I saw that you were angry and you started screaming, it... It was nice. And I felt safe." He finally broke the thread, twirled it in his fingers for a moment, then finally looked up at Phil with a doubtful look. "Does that make sense?"

It did. It definitely did, even if neither of them knew how to put it into words, they both just understood.

Techno didn't understand. Techno was far from understanding that Phil might get angry because of him but not at him. And it probably wasn't going to change too quickly.

He couldn't tell which of them felt more awkward. Techno turned his back to him as much as possible and, leaning his forehead against the glass, looked back at the road. He was visibly tense, and his knee was still twitching nervously. Phil made no further attempt to engage in conversation, accepting that he had taken his one chance and fucked it up spectacularly. He just sincerely hoped that at least Wilbur wouldn't make it worse.

No, wait. That sounded wrong. He knew his son and knew that he would never have done anything wrong on purpose, especially since only less than two hours ago, his main concern was whether he would be allowed to play with his 'new brother' (Phil didn't ask why he wouldn't. It wasn't a good moment to reach so deep). But he was still just a child in a difficult, stressful situation. Nobody would be surprised if at some point it just overtook him.

But, apparently, it would not happen just yet, because when Phil finally opened the door to the house, letting Techno pass in front of him and gesturing for him to the living room, somewhere upstairs a door immediately opened, a pair of feet pounded on the steps and Wilbur ran downstairs, stopping on the last step. He looked at the other boy, then at Phil as if asking for permission, and when the man reached out to him, he immediately ran to his side, gripping his hand tightly.

Techno didn't back away or flinch, but shifted the suitcase so that he had it centered in front of him, like a shield. His face was still glistening with sweat, and the last thing Phil wanted was him fainting and Phil needing to remember how first aid worked. On the other hand, he had a strong feeling that he shouldn't leave the boys alone right away, even if it would only be for half a minute and even if he would literally be a few meters away all the time. Not when Wilbur's eyes already rested on Techno's shoulders.

 _Damn it._ He was going to ask something, he was going to ask about it, Phil could see it in his expression, in the way he frowned, damn, he forgot all about it, didn't think at all...!

"Wilbur-"

"Do you want some water?" The boy blurted out at the exact same moment, and Phil immediately fell silent in surprise. "You're sweaty."

Techno didn't reply, either in words or in any other way, but Wilbur didn't seem to be waiting for that at all. When he returned from the kitchen a moment later with a bottle of water, he didn't hand it directly to him either, but put it back on the couch and immediately stepped back, returning to the previous place. Phil felt his hand and squeezed it quite reflexively.

It wasn’t that he didn't know Wilbur was smart. He was well aware of this and tried to remind him of it at every step. He just sometimes forgot that Wilbur understood better than anyone what it was like to be a child in a new, scary environment, among people who could hurt you at any moment if they wanted to. How it was to believe that they would hurt you, maybe sooner, maybe later, but someday for sure. It was easy to forget. It was easy to pretend that those first few weeks had never happened, that he had been here forever, that he had never stood in the same place as Techno now, and looked at Phil with the same fear and sad anticipation.

But Wilbur remembered. He remembered not to ask questions, he remembered to keep his distance, he remembered that it was up to Techno to decide when and if he wanted to let them come closer.

Wilbur remembered, and Phil felt horrible about how grateful he was about it.

Techno emptied the bottle in a few mighty gulps, but only after he made sure that it was sealed beforehand. Ah. Great. Getting better. Phil loved these little, inconspicuous habits.

"So..." Wilbur shifted nervously from foot to foot, and for a few seconds he looked as if he had already made a detailed escape plan in his mind. But then he took a deep breath, grinned broadly, and held out his hand in greeting - and Phil realized that he wasn't scared at all. He was nervous because he wanted to make a good first impression.

"Hi." When no one squeezed his hand, he raised it to his forehead as if saluting. "Um... I'm Wilbur."

Techno grimaced and eyed him warily. Wilbur kept smiling, but Phil could have sworn he straightened up and surreptitiously tried to stand on tiptoe.

"Yeah. I heard."

If Wilbur felt offended by the cold reception, he didn't show it. Instead, he ran three great strides through the living room, jump on the couch, and reached for something on the table.

"Do you like playing cards?" He leaned over the back, lifting the deck of cards in a gesture of victory. He waited a moment, and when he got no reply, waved the box encouragingly. "You wanna play with me? Phil taught me to play Macao. I can show you, I'm really good at it. Dream says I'm cheating, but don't listen to him, he has no evidence and he's just angry because he keeps losing. Dream has a problem with everything. He took offense recently because we played Monopoly and he was in jail three times in a row. What was I supposed to do about it? We can play Monopoly too. But later. People usually shout at each other a lot during the game.” He paused for a moment just as Phil was getting ready to remind him that he had to breathe too. Not that this joyful chatter bothered him in any way. He was always happy to see how open and daring his child gradually became. "So? Cards?"

Techno definitely didn't share his enthusiasm. Rather, he looked as if he was trying by sheer willpower to knock the cards out of his hand and throw them in his face. Phil shifted slightly to the left in case he got bored with telekinesis and tried more traditional methods.

"No."

Wilbur's smile faded.

"Oh. Okay." There was genuine disappointment in his voice, but he didn't try to push. "Maybe later...?"

Phil was pretty sure 'later' wouldn't come too soon, but he kept the thought to himself. Techno seemed as interested in making friends as he was in walking on nails.

He was, however, very interested in exploring the house, and it would have been a really good sign if Phil hadn't been absolutely sure that what he meant was potential hiding places and escape routes. Not that there was anything weird about it. He simply wished he hadn't seen the disappointment in his eyes at the news that, apart from the bathroom, none of the rooms had a lock, and that his room was upstairs, and that a jump from the windowsill could break his limbs.

Wilbur, trailing step by step, seemed completely unaware of this, and joyfully continued the process of talking his new brother to death.

"Here's the kitchen. You can take whatever you want, but when you finish the milk, don't put the empty carton in the fridge, because Phil won't be able to drink his coffee later in the morning and he'll end up whining about it. Oh, and we can share duties! You'll be setting the table and helping with the washing up. And once a week you have to vacuum everywhere."

Phil raised an eyebrow.

"Wilbur, did you just pass all your duties to him?"

The boy was silent, he stared at the man with an unreadable face for a few seconds, then, as if nothing had happened, trotted over to the door to the terrace.

"Come on, I'll show you the garden!"

For the first time a shadow of genuine curiosity flashed across Techno's face.

"Do you have a garden here?" He asked, and at first Phil assumed he was entertaining the idea of the easiest possible escape route. However, when they stepped out onto the sun-heated terrace, the child's eyes lit up clearly and the corners of his mouth lifted. And even if he immediately shook himself and became serious, it was too late. Phil made the appropriate observations, drew conclusions, and clung to them like a sinking raft on the high seas.

"Do you like it?" He asked, although he knew perfectly well that he was unlikely to receive an honest answer. And he was not mistaken. "We only have a few vegetable patches. I have absolutely no hand for plants."

Techno frowned. For a moment he looked as if he was seriously considering whether to say something, but before he could make up his mind, Wilbur, clearly bored of running aimlessly between the beds, knocked on the glass door.

"I'll show you your room!"

Phil tried very hard not to feel disappointed when he was once again only given a telltale silence.

"It's empty so you can decorate it up yourself," Wilbur explained as Techno stood a few minutes later on the threshold of a white painted and indeed almost empty room.

On the principle that you don't change the method that works, Phil chose a furniture set almost identical to the one his first child had received the year before. Yes, it was a bit of a sad sight. Yes, it got even sadder when Techno laid his disproportionately large suitcase on the bed and took out of it one carefully folded pant, two T-shirts, a sweatshirt, pajamas and a toothbrush, as if it were the icing on a pitifully thinempty cake. But, with any luck, that was about to change soon. Wilbur had started with one map above his desk, and but now Phil wasn't quite sure what color the walls were under the thick layer of photos and posters. He hasn't seen the floor very often either, but that was a phenomenon he would rather not repeat.

Still, as he glanced at the bleak mound of clothes on the new sheets, he felt familiar twitch in his heart.

"How about shopping tomorrow?" He tried his best to make it sound like a casual proposition, not a scream of despair. "I've prepared some clothes for you, and I think they'll actually fit, but I'd rather you pick your own clothes. Although I tried to make them... 'universal'."

Somewhere behind him, Wilbur made a sound as if he was choking.

"'Universal' means boring."

Sometimes Phil remembered the times when his son could keep his mouth shut and not make fun of him all the time. A dark period in history, indeed.

Techno slowly closed the suitcase and set it on the floor. He carefully ran his hand over the sheets as if he were making sure he wouldn't fall into any masked trap before he sat up in bed.

"So I can unpack here?" He made sure, glancing significantly at his very meager possessions.

Phil smiled, trying for cheerful.

"Of course."

There was complete silence for several long, unbearably stretched seconds.

"Will you leave, finally?"

"Ah! Yes, sure." Phil grabbed Wilbur by the arm, dragging him out into the hallway with him. Techno followed them at a safe distance, until he was able to reach the doorknob. "If you wanted to change, I left clothes in the wardrobe. There are fresh towels in the bathroom drawer, feel free to take a shower if you feel like it. I'll call you to dinner, okay?"

The boy shut the door in his face, not bothering to answer.

Wilbur swayed carelessly on his heels.

"I think we did well," he said with all the might of childish naivety. "He didn't try to run away. It's a good sign."

Phil would love to have at least half his optimism.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> archiveofourown.org/works/29733213/chapters/73129290
> 
> Here comes the link again, because I live in Poland and it's kinda our thing - putting the same billboards everywhere.   
> The same. Fucking. Billboards.   
> (Sorry, I just have a moment of hating my country.)


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always @SylviaoftheDepths did amazing job with this chapter! 
> 
> Also, here's link. You know what I want.   
> archiveofourown.org/works/29733213/chapters/73129290

Maybe he should have had a little more self-confidence, because the second day of Techno's stay at their home started really promising. Maybe not sensational, but definitely closer to 'good' than 'tragic', and taking into account the circumstances, they couldn't count on more.

Surprise number one: when he came to wake the boy for breakfast in the morning, he not only opened the door a crack, but also allowed him to go inside. With obvious reluctance, and probably more out of the conviction that refusal would do nothing, but that was still a progress. Surprise number two: he was wearing one of the T-shirts Phil had left in the closet for him. Thank goodness, apparently no garment had accumulated many years of trauma for him.

"Can I wear a sweatshirt?" Was the first Techno said, and for a moment Phil didn't understand why that specifically was the first thing he’d chosen to say to him. But then his gaze fell on his bare, disfigured arms, and the memory of the previous day hit with full force. Although it could hit stronger. He deserved it. "I don't like people staring at them."

Phil hesitated, not sure from which side to approach the subject. On one hand, he felt obliged to at least try to instill in the child a minimal respect for his own body. On the other, his own scars seemed to burn beneath the long sleeve of his shirt whenever he got to it. Was he a hypocrite? In a way, for sure. But most of all, he was a father who wanted his children to grow up to be better, healthier people than himself.

"Techno, listen..."

The boy scowled at him without even waiting for him to get to the point.

"Are you gonna blabbing about how 'the scars mean I'm stronger'?" he mocked someone in a high, squeaky voice, "Or some shit like that?"

For some reason, Phil was absolutely sure that Nate was the author of that cliché. Very in his style - lots of good intentions and shitty effect.

He shook his head, crouching in front of the boy, who flinched but didn't back away, staring at him alertly, almost defiantly.

"I will 'blab' that you shouldn't care what anyone thinks about them. Scars are scars. They mean something bad happened, that's all. It's okay if you don't want to show them. I understand it perfectly, really, believe me. But you shouldn't be ashamed of them. It's not your fault you have them. You haven't done anything wrong.”

He tried to make the last words sound particularly strong, and thought he succeeded to some extent, because although Techno immediately folded his arms over his chest, his hands covering the largest clusters of mutilated skin, his voice was much softer when he spoke again. Dripping with bitterness and full of sad reconciliation with fate, but much, much calmer.

"I think if you asked them, they would say something different."

Phil wasn't sure who exactly 'they' were. He knew, however, that he would very much like to exchange a few words with them. Preferably in a remote area where no one would hear the screams and never find the bodies.

"I don't think people who do something like this deserve to be able to express their opinion at all. Generally, they deserve nothing." He straightened, watching the boy's knuckles slowly regain color as he gradually loosened his grip on his shoulders. He wasn't under the illusion that he had managed to fix the problem once and for all (or at least for more than an hour), but he must have taken a bigger step in that direction than the last time, and that was something to be proud of. "You can wear whatever you want. But remember that no one in this house will ever tease you about them. And if someone else tries... just tell us. Okay?"

Surprise number three: after a few seconds of silence, he heard a soft "Okay".

Who knows, maybe he was the right man in the right place after all.

Maybe it all had a chance to work out.

* * *

Surprise number four: Techno was cooperating.

Perhaps he was not particularly enthusiastic, perhaps he only spoke when someone asked him a question that required an answer more complex than "yes" or "no", perhaps he seemed lost in his own thoughts and completely cut off from reality - but he cooperated! He was pushing the still empty cart in front of him, studying the shop windows, and didn't even look like he was planning to run away.

"So you will buy me whatever I want?" He made sure when they passed the electric barriers of one of the clothing stores.

Phil hesitated. He didn't want to raise the question of price, remembering the care with which Wilbur always studied the tags of each item before showing it to him. On the other hand - unfortunately, he was not a millionaire (he didn't understand why, but you see the world just wasn't fair).

"Unless it's worth more than both of my kidneys," he finally replied, hoping that the playful tone would soften the overall message a little.

It worked somehow, because when Techno nodded, he seemed more than satisfied. Phil really couldn't ask for anything more. A child who tells you what he needs? Who can specify what he wants and is not afraid to refuse if he finds any of the things proposed to him "nasty"? Who understands that he cannot live his entire life in one pair of pants? Thank you, God, and may there be more such miracles!

Although, to be honest, he didn't fully understand what criteria the boy was compiling his list of priorities by. Phil had never met a ten-year-old cautious enough to choose an autumn jacket, a raincoat and a few thick sweaters in the summer, not to mention asking the cashier if the shoes he was measuring were sure to be waterproof and would they still be if they're left in the rain for a few hours. On the other hand, there were a lot of things Phil didn't understand, and probably never would have understood - like most of the lucky people. So he tried not to pay special attention to it, just making sure that the cart also included a few thinner T-shirts, shorts and sneakers.

It got a little more difficult when all the clothes finally ended up in the bags and they set out to find accessories for the new room. Or at least Phil has set out. To find at least a little bit of interest that Techno has apparently lost somewhere between the hangers.

"I'll show you where the posters are!" Wilbur, making up for both of them, seemed utterly indifferent to the bored look the other boy gave him time and time again. "We can pick a bigger one so you can hang it over your desk. Like my map. Or we can make a photo collage like Eret has. His aren't even real photos, he got them from the internet. That's why they're pretty."

Techno rolled his eyes, but, clearly feeling that he wouldn't win this war, followed him down one of the alleys. Phil watched them go, turning his head quickly as the boy glanced over his shoulder at him. He wasn't quite sure what the relationship between the boys was at that moment. He wasn't even sure it could be called a "relationship" at all. Wilbur's enthusiasm neutralized Techno's irritation, and the overall result showed something on the level of mutual tolerance. There was a high probability, however, that the laws of mathematics weren't very relevant here.

"Have you thought about the color of the walls?" He asked when the kids returned with an armful of rolled-up posters of various sizes. He had a strong suspicion that most of them would mysteriously end up in the wrong room, but he decided not to interfere.

He turned the cart down the paint alley, stopping at the first bookcase. He quietly hoped that they would choose one of the lighter shades, and Techno must have sensed it, because he immediately headed in the opposite direction. For a moment his gaze wandered down the shelves, until he suddenly froze, like a predator at the sight of a prey, and a wide, decidedly malicious smile appeared on his lips.

"This one."

Phil followed the direction the boy was pointing his finger at and... No, he didn't really feel disappointed. Not even annoyed. He just wanted to sigh very, very heavily.

Wilbur was much less subtle.

"You can't paint the room black."

Techno was already on tiptoe to reach the upper shelf. He managed to slide the can down with his fingertips, and Phil at the last moment leaned over to grab it before it fell on his head. There was no point in expecting some "Oh, thank you, it almost killed me!" but he felt a bit hurt when the kid just jumped away from him as if he had electrocuted him.

"Because...?"

"Because it's gonna be dark, dumbass."

Despite his love for logical arguments, Phil rested his hand on his son's shoulder to placate him a bit.

"This is Techno's room, Wilbur. He can choose any color he wants." _Even if it’s a nightmarish choice intended only to throw me off balance and start an argument, and with the eyes of my soul I can already see how terribly difficult it would be to repaint it when - God, please - Techno changes his mind and..._ "Ah! How about those special paints you can write on with chalk? I'm sure I saw them here last time."

Wilbur sucked in a breath, suddenly keenly interested.

"Can you write on the walls?"

"You no longer have free walls to do anything with them. Techno? What do you think?"

Techno didn't answer. He didn't have to. The way he looked at Phil with anger and some strange, vague disappointment was more than enough. He turned on his heel, studied the paints for a moment, then grabbed the closest, a light brown shade.

"Okay," he grunted, tossing the can more than putting it back in the basket. "So be it."

Phil tried very hard to hide his relief and satisfaction. Very hard. Which doesn't mean he succeeded.

"I really don't mind if you..."

Techno pushed back the basket, which collided with the bookshelf and probably only miraculously didn't drop any cans from it.

"I said okay," he growled, heading towards the opposite end of the alley.

Phil was ready to run after him, but at that moment he felt a trembling hand tighten on his forearm. He looked down, and all his attention immediately shifted to Wilbur, gasping for air in shallow, quick breaths.

"Hey, hey, kiddo.” He crouched down beside him, tossing his dark fringe aside to meet his eyes. "It's okay, nothing's happening."

The boy nodded slowly, and though his eyes were still wide and his fingers were gripping Phil's hand so tightly that it was almost painful, he sounded much calmer than he looked when he spoke up.

"I know. It's okay," he assured him, finally withdrawing his hand to immediately hug himself. "I just got scared. But it's okay."

Phil purred in understanding.

"You want to go home? We can come here another time."

Wilbur shook his head.

"No, I wanted..." he hesitated, suddenly embarrassed. "I wanted to show him something."

He glanced at Phil as if he were judging if he could trust him with his secret, then moved closer so he could say something in his ear.

Phil immediately felt all his uneasiness and doubts turn to affection.

"Oh." He nodded as Wilbur stepped back, eyeing him questioningly. "Yhm, yeah, I think it's a good idea."

Techno didn't think it was a good idea.

"I'm not a baby," he grunted ten minutes later as Wilbur almost forcibly dragged him into the toy alley.

Phil watched him closely for more warning signs, but it seemed that the boy had calmed down a bit and had no plans for another outburst. In fact, he almost seemed ashamed. When they found him sitting on the floor, his back against the wall and his chin on his knees, there was no more aggression left in him, only confusion and fear. Phil didn't try to ask. He didn't try to talk. A crowded shop with a few people already peering at them with curiosity was definitely not a good place for serious talks. So he patiently waited for the boy to gather enough strength to stand up and follow them, keeping a safe distance, still tense and silent.

Well, now at least he started talking. Good sign!

"I have that one!" Wilbur jumped up to pull a large, plush sheep off the shelf, which he immediately dragged towards Techno. "It's called 'Friend'. He's suuuper soft and nice. Give it a try!"

Techno grimaced. He grimaced even more as the sheep's muzzle practically stabbed him in the cheek.

"Why the hell would I need that?"

Wilbur thought for a moment, stroking his blue fur.

"It's nice to have something to hug when you're sad. Or if you want to cry without anyone seeing."

Phil wasn't sure exactly what that description had aroused in him and how he should react to it, so temporarily decided not to react at all.

"You can choose whatever you want," he said instead, nodding at the rows of stuffed animals.

Perhaps he was exaggerating a bit. It's possible that boys that age didn't want to appear 'childish' anymore. It is possible that Techno had a completely different taste when it came to toys. The thing was, deep down in his heart, though he had a hard time admitting it, Phil believed Wilbur was right. He could try and try to give his boys all the love, tenderness, and attention they so needed and were thirsty for after years of neglect, but sometimes it still wasn't enough. Sometimes he didn't know in time that he was needed. Sometimes, by chance, he did or said the wrong thing and stepped over some thin, invisible line of trust. Sometimes, for a moment, for a day, sometimes for two, he became a stranger again. And however infinitely more he would have liked his children to always come to him when they needed reassurance, if the stuffed toy was to help when he couldn't - he was ready to buy the whole goddamn store right away.

Techno crossed his arms over his chest, pushing away the sheep that Wilbur continued to stab at his shoulder with a mischievous smile.

"Okay," he grunted, clearly trying to sound rude enough to make Phil change his mind on the spot and decide not to buy him anything. When nothing of the sort happened, he let out a low murmur of extreme annoyance, reluctantly lifting his head to study the toys.

It took a few seconds of searching for his eyes to shine and his face to soften for a second. Phil followed his gaze and immediately shifted so that the child could reach the appropriate shelf.

The fluffy white bear looked strangely out of place in the boy's embrace, Techno holding him with outstretched arms as if he didn't quite know what to do with him. Because maybe he didn't know. Phil preferred not to think too much about that, for his own peace of mind.

Nevertheless, precisely because he looked so incredibly awkward as he stared at the toy, looking in that moment uncharacteristically both helpless and defenseless, the bear was definitely going to go home with them.

"He's... really soft," the boy admitted quietly, and though he tensed again, as if remembering to be alert, the way his hands trembled slightly, clenched against the white fur, completely defied his indifferent expression. "And pretty nice, or something... Let it be."

"Let it be" meant that Techno didn't let go of the stuffed animal for a second, until he had to put it on the counter, and even then he held it by the paw all the time to make sure that no one would take it from him.

"You want to check my pockets?" He asked as they pushed the cart towards the exit. Wilbur apparently made it his goal to ram into as many people as possible along the way.

Phil hesitated, trying to remember if the file mentioned anything about kleptomania or something like that, but was absolutely sure he would have immediately recalled such an important detail.

"Is there anything in them I should know?" He made sure, and when the boy shook his head, he shrugged. "Then I see no reason."

He couldn't tell if that was a right or wrong answer. Techno's face remained unreadable and his eyes indifferent, but Phil still have himself a small mental pat on the back. For encouragement.

Or maybe even that tiny mental reward was a little exaggerated, because as soon as they got home, Techno immediately grabbed the bags with his things and rushed upstairs. Phil just managed to call out for him to be careful before the door slammed behind him.

Well, at least Wilbur was still stewing with enthusiasm.

"Can I go get him?" He asked later as Phil laid out the scrambled eggs on the plates. His help to prepare the dinner was usually limited to half-lying on the table and having deep conversations more with himself than with anyone else.

"Sure."

"Can I talk to him?"

Phil set the pan on the stove for a few seconds to think.

"Of course. If he only wants to," he replied carefully, then added, "don't try to force him, okay?"

He knew that he worried unnecessarily, the boy had already proved that not only did he know what to do, he was definitely better at handling the situation than Phil was, but still... He didn't want him to be disappointed. And it was inevitable, so much so that by the time Wilbur had run up the stairs, Phil was already removing a tray from the cupboard to place a plate of food, a cup of tea, and a bottle of water on it.

Less than a minute later he heard fast footsteps on the stairs a second time. Definitely one pair of feet.

"I'm not hungry, fuck off," the boy said, likely repeating what had been said to him far too enthusiasticly for someone who had just been dismissed aggressively. "I'll leave it at the door for him, okay?"

Without waiting for a reply, he picked up the tray and, this time much more carefully so as not to spill anything, made his way again to the stairs.

Phil didn't ask. The last few months had taught him that sometimes he just couldn't understand his kid and he shouldn't even try.

Wilbur didn't come back for a long time, however, and anxiety was gradually taking over Phil's common sense. The scrambled eggs began to cool, and the steam stopped rising from his mug, but he couldn't bring himself to eat alone. Maybe it was because he wasn't used to lonely meals anymore. Perhaps it was because he was vigilant about making sure that his son always ate enough often enough. Or maybe because he didn't have any attention left, because he was fully focused on anticipating any suspicious sound. Some screaming, or broken glass, or a dead body hitting the floor...

Okay, maybe he was being dramatic. Maybe. A bit. But he was damn hungry and absolutely unable to swallow anything, so although he kept telling himself over and over that it was pointless and he was just making a fool of himself, he went upstairs to get rid of the vision of washing blood off the floor once and for all. He would just look into Wilbur's room, find him too busy checking out something super-important on his phone, or the atlas, or...

Wilbur wasn't in his room. Unless he doubled because Phil could clearly hear his voice coming from behind the closed door of Techno's room.

To be clear, Phil found eavesdropping a very nasty habit and a serious breach of privacy. Especially when it came to his own children, who had absolutely every right to feel at ease in their own home and not have to worry that someone would trick them into discovering their secrets. If something wasn't for his ears, Phil wouldn't hear it.

But on the other hand...

Okay, there was no "other hand". He was just a bad person and he absolutely couldn't contain his curiosity. If he believed in Hell, he would say he would probably end up in it for what he was about to do.

As silently as he could, mentally cursing himself, he moved closer to the door to hear better.

"You don't have to be scared, you know." Wilbur's voice was low, calm, and very, very far from the vision of bloodshed. "Phil won't hurt you."

Techno sounded exactly as enthusiastic as ever. Perhaps even less so. He was slowly reaching the stage where a person turns into an emotional black hole, sucking optimism from all around them.

"How do you know?"

A short huff.

"I live with him, dumbass."

"But I'm not his son."

"And?" He didn't have to see Wilbur to know he'd just shrugged. "Me neither. I mean, not like _a real son_. He took me from the system a year ago."

Techno was silent for a long time.

"Oh..."

Yes, indeed - oh.

When Phil imagined future punishment for eavesdropping, he really was thinking of Hellfire rather than an immediate stab in the heart with a knife.

He couldn't even argue that he was innocent because he fucking consciously brought it on himself. He wasn't supposed to be hearing this, he shouldn't have heard it, he was damn absolutely sure Wilbur would never say anything like this if he knew Phil could hear.

For some reason, this knowledge made the situation five times worse.

Deep down, deep, deep beneath layers of shock, pain, and disappointment, frustration grew. He was tired, embittered and somehow betrayed, even if he couldn't explain how and by whom exactly.

Was it by a child, because he had the audacity to be guided by his own emotions? Because he didn't appreciate his efforts and didn't feel exactly what he "should" feel?

Phil never thought it could be that pathetic...

He didn't think that way. He really didn't. Wilbur owed him nothing, had no debt to pay, neither material nor emotional, and Phil knew that perfectly well. He was just hurt and needed time to think things through and work through his own emotions. And to put his heart together, if it had to be this damn dramatic.

They never really talked about it - at one point he just found himself calling the boy 'son' not only in his mind but aloud as well. The first time it happened, Wilbur looked at him in genuine amazement, then grinned broadly and nodded, as if to say, "Yes. Exactly. This is how it has to be." Phil had been sure it would be enough. That they had made some kind of silent agreement that day and unanimously decided that they were a family, maybe a little small, maybe a bit 'unofficial' - but absolutely _real_ and perfectly sufficient.

Apparently he was wrong. Apparently Wilbur didn't think he was a _real_ son in Phil's eyes.

Did he do something wrong at any point? Had he let him down or disappointed him, or did he just not make it clear enough how much the boy meant to him? Maybe he should be more open. He wasn’t one to talk about feelings even if someone held a gun to his head, but he was ready to try, learn it somehow, whatever...

(A soft voice in the back of his head whispered that perhaps Wilbur didn't see _him_ as his real father. He didn't want to listen to it. He really, really didn't...)

He vaguely heard Wilbur talking, but it was only Techno's voice that brought him back to reality.

"He called you his son," he said, and Phil immediately felt a sudden rush of affection. At least one child noticed his intentions. It was a pity that it was the one he had known only a few days... "Earlier, when he was talking to me."

"Yes, he does it a lot." Wilbur didn't seem surprised by this information, and there was no indication that he saw any discrepancy in the facts. "He's really weird sometimes. But that's nice. You'll get used to it."

A soft rustling sound, as if Techno was wrapped in the quilt more tightly.

"I'm not staying here."

"Why?" Phil couldn't hear the answer. Though a much more likely alternative was that it just never appeared. "Okay. You don’t have to, if you don’t want to. But if you change your mind... It would be nice if you stayed. Phil would be pleased."

"Phil doesn't care."

"That's not true! You say this because no one has cared for you before and you think it's normal, but it's not true. Puffy says so and Puffy is smart."

"Who's Puffy?"

"My therapist."

"Are you crazy or some shit?"

"I'm not! And you're not nice at all!"

"And?"

"And you could start."

"I don't have to be nice to you."

"But you can."

"But I won't."

"Fine!"

There was complete silence in the room for the next few seconds, and Phil was getting ready to leave the door before he was caught red-handed. Before he could even take a step towards his office, however, Wilbur spoke again, this time softer - much, much softer a mixture of compassion and understanding in his tone.

"You’re scared."

Techno sucked in a loud breath.

"Not at all."

"You are. I know because I was scared, too."

"Do you want something?" Techno cut him off in a sharp, almost aggressive tone. "If not, get out. Now!"

Wilbur might have been so stubborn that it was masochistic at times, but even he knew when to let go, for his own safety. Phil heard him jump off the bed and immediately retreated down the hall. He had managed to close the office door behind him just as the one to the Techno room opened with a soft creak.

He fell heavily in a chair, rubbing his face with his hands.

_Not like a real son._

He shouldn't have found out how Wilbur felt like this. He should never have heard it.

But he did hear. And he now had to learn to live with it somehow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are, at the beginning of Phil's Mental Breakdown Arc and I'm not joking, lmao. He will suffer, and I'll have a great time writing it down. Enjoy!


End file.
